Taiels of the Aiels
by Bob G. Leeman
Summary: Enaila and the Madmen: yet another confused tale of that which transpires when a foolish Gleeman sets out for home. featuring: Loial
1. Cohradin and the Foxmen

_Gleeman Bob writes: explanatory note... this story is told almost entirely from Cohradin's perspective and is therefore full of inconsistencies, exaggerations and falsehoods! Also, he was very drunk. I apologise for the crudeness and vulgarity, however. I just had to get this out of my system before going on to more serious topics, like who is inside the Stasis Box now that it has finally opened... this confused narrative took a weekend to write and several months to edit!_

_Walk in the Light!_

_(oh, and there are two missing scenes which Cohradin only remembers at a later date, which explain why and how the Eelfinn had all evidence of his visit to their Realm scrubbed from the Cosmic Consciousness... just in case anyone wants to point-out that young Master Cauthon was the first to step through the redstone doorway in 'a very long time.' nyah!)_

_Shocklances still aren't ter'angreals though... unfortunately! _

**_* updated! sorry, the stupid Gleeman got the whole bridal-wreath thing wrong also! I have made changes thereof and I wish to apologise to the entirety of the Aiel nation for confusing their marriage proposal customs with my own! not that I am planning on making any bridal-wreaths in the near future... or dishonourably dressing-up like a Wise One either!_**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Cohradin &amp; the Foxmen<strong>_

_**(a night in Rhuidean)**_

**Sept-goats…**

There were Wise Ones and Sept Chiefs and _algai'd'siswai_ of five different Clans camped on the slopes of Chaendaer that lead down to the mysterious City of Rhuidean. There were Wise One's apprentices to be sent into the grey smoke to return as Wise Ones, as well as a succession of bare-skinned, scowling girls sent running down also, to return as Wise One's apprentices. And in addition to this, the sneaking Shaido sneaks had brought several unlucky fellows to Rhuidean also, the Sept Chief of Wet Sands Hold included with the others, each arranged in order of height so that the tallest and most impressive specimens of Chiefhood were sent in first. (They had not returned.)

In other words, there was a big queue waiting to go into Rhuidean this time, and it _always_ went in order of importance – prospective Wise Ones, then prospective apprentice Wise Ones… and then, mere sneaking Shaido Sept Chiefs! Even the Shaido Wise Ones agreed that this was how it should be… though they agreed on little else, even with each other.

Provokingly, the tricksome Taardad and almost-as-bad stinking Shaarad had received all of _their_ self-important newly-raised Wise Ones and still-scowling-only-even-more-so apprentice Wise Ones back, returned from the bosom of the Hidden City… yet had remained camped on the slopes leading down to Rhuidean for several extra days – but why? For the sheer entertainment value of watching Shaido Sept-Chiefs trudging fatalistically into the grey smoke and not trudging out again, _that_ was why! It was nice, the fools to the south no-doubt thought, to see sneaking Shaido disposing of themselves one-at-a-time into the fog, to never emerge – every three days; one less goat-thief to have to worry about!

Clan Chief was not-near so coveted a position amongst the Shaido as with other Clans and no Sept Chief particularly cared to go into Rhuidean, where clearly something lived that did not like Shaido men, for Shaido women _always_ returned… which undoubtedly meant that some kind of Jenn Aiel Maiden-monster of the scary-Spears lurked within (the wiser heads considered) a terrifying apparition that presumably enjoyed the flavour of Shaido Sept Chiefs.

A pity that the old Shaido Clan Chief, had fallen down that hole directly onto the large nest of fearsome puffer-snakes. A vacancy! But hardly surprisingly, no Sept Chief particularly wanted the job… apart from the rigorous and almost-always fatal application process, their current duties were bad enough, after all – sitting in the silly uncomfortable chair all morning whilst a frowning Wise One hovered nearby, occasionally prodding you with a bony finger, whispering and hissing her orders prior to the rare occasions when you were permitted to speak… why then, did they not just make a Sept Chief of straw behind which the Wise One could crouch, gruffening her voice as she gave her commands and moving the straw mouth with strings? Why trouble to even have Sept Chiefs at all, anyway?

One-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ often occupied his mind with such issues. It was a fairly good mind, when he was not drunk or enraged about something unimportant, and his speculation not entirely idle either, for his father had been Sept Chief of Wet Sands for thirteen years and might have gone to Rhuidean _and_ returned, had he not been waked by Shadowrunners the year _before_ the officiating Clan Chief tumbled off the cliff onto all of those spiny _rocha_-plants. Like father like son? No chance! The only way Cohradin would ever get into Rhuidean was if he _sneaked_ in there! Cohradin was adept at sneaking, as were all of the Shaido, it was not just a clever name… but those of Wet Sands needed to be particularly gifted in every manner of sneakery, for of all the Shaido Holds, there's stood closest to the Blight.

Odd, though, that sparsely-populated Wet Sands had provided one of the 'goats' this time… Cohradin always thought of the Sept Chiefs who went into Rhuidean as goats, prodded along by the Wise Ones, bleating goats to the slaughter! And it was, of course, old Sadora prodding Mangalin the Sept Goat along with her fearsome stick on this dread occasion. Cohradin was glad that he was _not_ Sept Chief of Wet Sands and had therefore not been selected, though this would have been unlikely to happen in any event, as the rest of the Shaido Wise Ones hated him almost as much as old Sadora did!

Actually, the Wise Ones of the other Clans seemed to intensely dislike Cohradin also, often shaking their fists and throwing rocks at him, but he had absolutely no idea why! Then, there were the _Maidens_… even those who did not know who he was were soon told exaggerated and untrue finger-stories by their hand-chattering spear-sisters… and now _they_ all seemed to hate him as well! Come to think of it, the wives of his near-friends were not all too keen on him either, and as for the many widows of the brave _Sovin Nai_ he had lead to their honour-filled wakings in the Blight, well… they _certainly_ seemed to loathe him deeply! But _why?_ It was impossible to understand women!

Mangalin, Sept Chief of Wet Sands, was unlikely to be seen again – he had gone into Rhuidean the previous dawn, Cohradin scowling at his back as he disappeared into the strange grey smoke. As well as being foolish, Mangalin was also annoying – he was always borrowing things and 'forgetting' to give them back… and it was not an honourable borrowing, as when the Shaido borrowed goats from the fools who lived to the south and forgot to return them. Did not the mighty Shaido live the very closest to the Blight, and dance the spears the oftenest with the Dark One's spawn, thus ensuring the continued safety of the southern Clan's goats? Did they not deserve additional herds in return for this service? 'Lizards for buzzards or buzzards for lizards - but sand for sand!' (as the ancient saying went.)

No, foolish Mangalin's 'borrowing' was most definitely of the dishonourable kind. He had borrowed Cohradin's best whet-stone to sharpen his spears and had neglected to return it. Gerom had refused to lend his Sept Chief any more books until he relinquished those he had not yet read. And Chassin regretted lending Mangalin a book also, an unusual wetland book that contained a great many pictures of unclothed ladies leaning forward to sniff flowers or holding vases up into the air. While the smelling of the blossoms made sense (for who did not appreciate the pungent aroma of a flowering _rocha_-plant?) why did the wetland ladies hold aloft the vases? Gerom thought it might perhaps be in order to catch some of the wetland 'rain' in. They had all agreed that this must be the most likely explanation.

A strange tome indeed, but Chassin's favourite (and only) book. Mangalin had _definitely_ not returned this! Though he claimed that his ferocious wife Dydendhra had found the book concealed beneath his sleep mat and had become characteristically enraged because the wetwomen within were not decently inside of a sweat-tent whilst engaged in their flower-sniffing and vase-holding. After rolling the slim book into a tube and beating Mangalin with it awhile, Dydendhra consigned it to the flames of their hearth. _Imagine!_ Burning a _book_, even though there were not that many actual words in it. _Wives!_

Though the whole thing was probably a falsehood, for Mangalin was a great liar as well as a big fool… had Dydendhra truly found such a book she would have done much worse things to Mangalin than he claimed. Things involving deep stab wounds even, for though Dydendhra had publicly broken her spears when she presented foolish Mangalin with his rather ugly bridal-wreath, which he had snatched up with unseemly haste, she had not broken _all_ of them and still kept her favourite (and sharpest) spear in a cupboard... just in case she ever decided to wake Mangalin from the badhusband-dream and go back to being wed to a weapon instead. _Maidens!_

As Society Leader of the Knife Hands, Cohradin had been required to attend Mangalin the foolish Sept-goat, with all two _Sovin Nai_ as his honour-spears. This was all the Knife Hands Wet Sands had to boast at the moment, since the rest had not returned from Cohradin's latest attempt to hunt and kill Sightblinder. Old Sadora was angry with Cohradin about this (though if not this it would only have been something else) and would have left him behind if she could. It was not _Cohradin's _fault that the big purple worm-thing ate all of the others! They were difficult to kill, those Worms – it had taken he, Chassin and Gerom all afternoon to beat it to death with their spear-butts (since it did not seem to care if they stabbed it) and their _cadin'sor_ had become completely ruined in the revolting worm-dance!

Gerom had once told Cohradin that the snivelling wetlanders kept creatures as 'pets'. These were 'dogs' and 'cats' and 'swines' that lived with them inside of their wetland Holds as though they were kin, and sat at table with them and ate what they did! It seemed very strange to Cohradin, sharing your inanimate food with food that was still moving, in this fashion. Apparently, these 'pets' even slept in the beds of the wetlanders also – _just think!_ A wetlander pig-beast resting its head upon the pillow next to yours! Most unhygienic. And Cohradin had said so. Sometimes, Cohradin thought things and then realised that he had also _said_ them! _Especially_ when he was drunk. This had not endeared him to others over the years. But _really_ – eating your honey-glazed locusts alongside a grunting hog-animal, and then sharing your blankets with it as well! _Wetlanders!_

'The uncultured folk to the west of the Dragonwall presumably lack any concept of civilised behaviour, at least as _we_ would understand it,' Gerom had posited. Cohradin agreed… though he _did_ have a favourite goat back at Wet Sands and would sometimes talk to it, or go for evening walks with it… but of course, that was completely different. He intended to eat it one day, one day for sure.

Doubtless, the great angry wormy thing that devoured the others and took a long time to wake from the worm-dream and left them covered in purple slime from head to toe (from ji to toh!) had been some kind of a 'pet' of Sightblinder. Seemingly, _Sovin Nai_ were its favourite lunch! It had certainly seemed to enjoy gobbling-up the others whilst they slept! They should _not_ have slept, for this was the Blight, and the Blight never slept, so they should not have either! Cohradin had deduced this. This was what he had learned from the vile experience.

The Dark One was crafty indeed – sending his Worm-pet to foil Cohradin's latest attempt upon his life! But Cohradin would wake _Shai'tan_ one day, if he kept on trying – it was inevitable that he would. If he was not woken from the Dream first, of course. And everyone else who he had nagged and bullied into coming with him to the Blight yet again, woken also…

What often confused other Aiel when they met one-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ (soon wishing they had not) was the awkward fact that he was somehow _still alive!_ Those _algai'd'siswai_ who behaved as _he_ did were usually waked from the Dream at a _much_ earlier age! Though difficult to understand _why_, it was as though the Creator quite _liked_ Cohradin… which was well, for Sulin of the Taardad did not!

* * *

><p><strong>a rather savage kicking…<strong>

"So, seeing that the Aes Sedai was using her healing powers on the fellow with the long hair and noting that the other wetlander was unlikely to dance with his dishonourable blade since he was, after all, holding a baby carefully (if incorrectly) in both of his arms, I ran back down the slopes of the Dragon's peak to rejoin my Clan, since the Treekiller was now dead and we could return to the Three-fold Land with all due honour."

"Did you say 'baby' Sulin?"

"Yes, the shorter wetlander (they wore the green _din'sor_ of the Companions of Illian, wherever that is) was holding a small newborn baby and looked very happy, though he frowned when he saw me, since I had just gutted one of his swordbrothers. But the Aes Sedai healers are powerful indeed! I am sure the fellow lived."

"Why did you even _tell_ the Aes Sedai about the fellow you wounded? What cared you if the wetlander died? It is not like _you_ to show mercy, Sulin!"

"I know. I would not have done it, but then I saw this particular Aes Sedai healing another wetlander and I recognised her – she was the very same we nearly ran into the day before! Do you recall, Nandera?"

"_I_ remember, Sulin – we nearly trampled three Aes Sedai! But they saw that we meant them no harm, and did not destroy us… I won a fine silver neck chain from a stupid Knife Hand who said that they _would! _He thought that if the Aes Sedai _did_ destroy us, I would then give him a gold brooch set with a small opal!"

"Knife Hands are foolish!"

"Foolish _Sovin Nai!_"

"They stink of dead he-goats left too long in the sun!"

"Even though supposedly grown-men, they all still wet in their blankets…"

"_And_ are scared of the dark and ask the Nightwatcher to protect them…"

"Yes, well, this is all true of course… but to continue with my tale, I saw that _same_ Aes Sedai we nearly ran over and knew that she was one of the healers of the White Tower, for did she not wear the Wise One's shawl with the yellow threads hanging down from it?"

"But _why_ did you tell her of the one you wounded, that he might be healed?"

"For two reasons, both of them good! First, he was a brave fellow who attacked us all though he was alone and danced the blades well, for I was the only one who survived the encounter… he moved _very_ fast for such a big man. He cut the throats from Galindra and Nawenda with but one stroke of his blade! But this left him open – I feinted to the side, for he was expecting the attack in front, as he was no fool… but neither am I! He thought he had me with his sudden thrust, but I rolled beneath his blade, punched my buckler into his chest, catching him off balance for a moment, then kicked aside his dishonourable sword and plunged my spearblade in, a hand's-span above the navel… I twisted as I withdrew and he fell back, dropping his blade. I then lowered my veil, for though he yet lived, the Dance was done."

"And your _second_ reason for showing him mercy, Sulin?"

"I told you that also, did I not? I lead the Aes Sedai to where the fellow lay for though he had waked my spear-sisters, he had done so with honour and not fought from the back of a steed or shot the arrow of a cowardly wetland crossed-bow…"

"But _why_, Sulin?"

"Because he was a handsome fellow! And he had such lovely long black hair, of course! Like the fur-mane of the wetlands 'horse' I would suppose…"

"Horse tastes little different than goat."

"It does indeed, Nandera, but is more stringy. Though I am glad he did not have the same long face as the horse-beast… _or_ the ears…"

"The ears become less chewy when scorched in the fire awhile…"

"They do..."

"The horse is also a larger beast than the goat in _other_ areas!"

"Hold your peace, Nandera! Do you tell this story or do I?"

"Forgive me, Sulin… pray continue…"

"Yes, well… it would have been foolish had the wetlander had _that _face. But he did not, fortunately! He had bold, handsome features beneath his fine mane."

"So you saved him because..?"

"Sulin of the Maidens may scorn a husband in favour of the spear, but that does not mean she is blind to the charms of a pretty man with a good head of hair!"

_The loud, raucous cackling of several seasoned Maidens of the Spear polluted the night as they stood in a circle clutching their spears and sipping their oosquai from tiny silver cups (a Knife Hand drank his oosquai straight from the flask - the more intelligent way to so do!) their occupied hands being the only reason that others had to listen to this endless lizard-jabbering for had their hands been empty then they would have stood silent, watching each other's flickery fingers and not making such horrid noise… _

_One-eyed Cohradin of the Sovin Nai crept a little closer… sneaked a little nearer… for he was a sneaking Shaido was he not? it was not just supposed to be a clever name, for did the Shaido not live closest to the Blight of all the Clans? and were they not required to perform acts of great sneakery at times?) Acts of great sneakage, often sneaking into the Blight itself – and also, acts of great honour. _

_Though it was difficult to sneak, whilst wearing the thick algode skirts and blouse of a Wise One's apprentice... though it felt more liberating than the cadin'sor! __A measured sip of oosquai, and Sulin's interminable and foolish tale continued._

"Had the fine fellow had the good fortune to be born Aiel, and had the good sense to live by ji'e'toh, I should have taken him _gai'shain_ then and there, and brought him back to the Roof of the Maidens at Cold Rocks that he might sing sweetly to my spear-sisters and me, and massage our feet after a long day's run!"

_More vile chicken-cackling, louder and longer… Cohradin scowled darkly. And sneaked a little closer, carefully keeping Sulin's bridal-wreath hidden behind his back with one hand, whilst holding the Wise One's shawl before his face with the other, to disguise the handsome features of a male algai'd'siswai impersonating a female. He crouched a little also, though Marindha, apprentice to old Sadora, was almost as tall as he and the clothing he had borrowed from her (albeit without her knowledge) fit surprisingly well. _

_Sing sweetly? Urgh! A man did not sing sweetly, or at all, unless it be noble songs that were of the Dance or being Waked from the Dream! If the Maidens of the Spear wished singing, let them go and catch themselves a Sword-Bard of Aramaelle, like Anselan Mac O'Nar, the only wetlander ever to somehow earn the enormous honour of being made Sovin Nai! Or go seize themselves a 'pet' Gleeman (though they would not be allowed to keep him.) _

_Neither old Sadora nor the Maidens had wished to let Roth Blucha leave Wet Sands Hold when he could walk again… the strutting Gleeman was lucky he were not Aiel or he would have been forced to marry someone! But wearing the white robe and tending bad-tempered old Maidens under their Roof? Cohradin would far rather stand gai'shain to a Fist of Trollocs and their Eyeless than massage those horny yellow feet! The soles of young Maidens were soft, soft indeed, their toes pink and delicate, and Cohradin did not mind massaging those, not at all, but Sulin and her scarred, stringy friends? Urgh! And really! Letting some hairy wetlands fellow live, even showing an Aes Sedai healer where he was… just because you thought he was really good-looking? Maidens! Again!_

"And besides, sisters, the fellow gave me a compliment! Lying there with a deep wound in his belly that my spear had just made, but not weeping or whining like most pitiful wetlanders would! I lowered my veil and he looked at me _very_ boldly with his fine flinty eyes, as though he did not care that he was dying, and pursed his lips appreciatively in a lewd way, as though he wished to take me in his arms like some compliant wetland woman, and kiss me upon the cheek, or _even_ the lips!"

"_Men!_"

"I was younger and more comely in those days, granted. But _honestly!_ Even whilst they lay dying, there is still but one thing that occupies what passes for their minds, it would seem."

"_Wetmen!_"

"Ours are as bad also, unfortunately…"

"No, they are _worse!_"

"That is not all! He winked at me, the saucy fellow, with his fine silky locks!"

"He did not!"

"He did. So, I smiled at him and winked back, then left him to die in his own good time, whilst I rejoined my Clan. But I saw the Aes Sedai and since some Nakai had shouted to me that the craven Treekiller was finally executed for his crime, I decided to show her where he lay, though the other wetlander had joined him by that point – he was crouched beside his dying comrade, showing him the baby, and the handsome fellow laying in his own blood was stroking it on the cheek and cooing to it! Wetlanders are _strange_."

"But why would the long-haired fellow be holding a _baby?_"

"Were you not listening? It was _not_ the handsome and richly-maned young wetlander who held the baby, but the other, his 'Captain' I believe it is called… he was shorter and with very dark eyes, but there was something to him… _apart_ from having the bird on his sword that is the wetland sign of a Blademaster… I think had he not held a baby then he might well have danced with me there and then, for had I not mortally wounded his swordbrother? Why, he well may have waked me from the dream, for he looked angry enough to! The handsome lad was a leopard, but this, a lion! But then he saw that I had brought the Aes Sedai healer with me, so he bowed awkwardly to her and called for us to approach. Whilst his swordbrother was being healed (a miraculous sight, I tell you!) the short blades-master even let _me_ hold the baby… in fact, I recall now that I _commanded_ him to, for he was _not_ holding the babe properly, nor supporting his little head as one should."

"Oh, it was a _boy_…"

"A little baby boy…"

"They have weaker necks than the girls, you must hold them properly…"

_Cohradin sighed with great disgust. But quietly, since he was quite close to them now. Foolish Maidens, chattering of some wetland baby as though there were anything special about that? There were many babies in the world, a great many babies indeed, what was so remarkable about this particular babe that had come to the Dragon Mountain to crawl the baby-blades with other silly wetland babies? _

"Yes, well, Sulin of the Maidens showed the short wetlander how to properly hold the babe, for men are ignorant of these and many other matters of importance…"

"Indeed they are, Sulin, they are indeed…"

"Men trusted with babes sometimes foolishly drop them onto the floor…"

"You must never let a man hold a baby unless you stand ready to _catch_ it…"

"But Sulin, I do not understand why the Blademaster had a _baby _at all?"

_Cohradin had by this time skilfully Shaido-sneaked to within striking range! He tensed his body tensely, preparing to perhaps dance the… fists? Not the spears at least, for this was Rhuidean was it not, where the Peace held sway? Dancing the feet as well as the fists, perhaps? No, he would not need to dance, Sulin would hopefully find what he was about to do amusing, very amusing indeed. His brother Knife Hands and the stupid Red Shields were all watching closely. Doubtless, some of the foolish Aethan Dor thought that he would not do it, that he would be afraid to… Cohradin grinned at the ridiculous idea of fear and raised the bridal-wreath (which was not a very good bridal-wreath) out before him with both hands. He then pouted grotesquely, giving his much scarred lips a good lick, getting them nice and…_

"_I_ do not know why the wetland Blademaster was carrying a babe ineptly into the middle of a battle! Ask a Wise One why, for all _I_ know is the spear I am wedded to! Perhaps it is some custom of theirs to take a baby to the Dance? They are strange, those wet- _aahh!_ Eurrghh! What in the Pit do you think you are _doing,_ ugly man?"

"I am giving you a kiss upon your cheek, Sulin of the Maidens!"

"You dirty fellow! _I know you_ – you are that sneaking Shaido Knife Hand who is always causing trouble and nearly starting blood-feuds over other people's goats! What is that foolish thing you are holding?"

"What does it _look_ like?"

"It looks _foolish!_ And why are you dressed as a Wise One?"

"I wished to give you a bridal-wreath, Sulin, and could scarcely do so without posing as a woman! You are man enough for both of us! Do you accept?"

"No! What is your stupid name, disconcertingly skirt-wearing Shaido..? _Karadin..?_"

"_Cohradin_, of the _Sovin Nai!_ And I kissed you, Sulin, because you are so beautiful to me! Here, do you pick up this bridal-wreath that I throw at your sore feet! Will you please give up the spear for me and be my spouse, Sulin of the Man-Maidens?"

"That is not a proper bridal-wreath, it is some shrivelled-looking spiny things that you have found somewhere and tied together with old boot-laces. But even if it were a _true_ bridal-wreath and were I ever to give up my spear and my sisters for a husband (which I would _not_) it would have to be for a much _less_ disfigured man than you, _scar-faced wretch_, and preferably, he would have _both _of his eyes in his head!"

"I sense that I may have upset you in some way, dearest Sulin? This confuses me, for I _know_ that you return my feelings but are too shy to speak of it. There is no privacy here, with everyone rudely listening as we coo to each other like a pair of Sharan love-doves. Will you not come to my tent that we may be alone together?"

"Hold my spears for me a moment, sisters. And my small silver cup. A great pity it is, about the Peace of Rhuidean… _Hear me_, no-brained Cohradin of the dirty-hands, while I tell you that I would not go to your tent even if it were the very _last_ tent in the Three-fold Land and _you_ the last man in it, for Sulin of the Maidens has _standards_ and you are but a filthy _sorda!_"

"I realise that you only say this to hide your great love for me, Sulin. Do not fear, handsome Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ is not offended. Pick up my wreath that lays at your aching feet (which I hear that you wish to have massaged by a long-haired crooning wetland _gai'shain_, the poor fool) and lift it high for all to see, that I may be made the happiest _algai'd'siswai_ upon this side of the Great Dragonwall!"

"_And_ you have been _spying_ on me like the sneaking Shaido hairy spider that you are! You eavesdrop upon my conversation with my spear-sisters, you interrupt my interesting tale of the day we slew the Treekiller by smearing your vile slimy lips against my cheek and then you give me this stupid thing of twigs and leaves as though it were a bridal-wreath? This is all some foolish jest, I take it?"

"It is no jest, Sulin! I wish for you to be my bride! I will have no other!"

"You have been drinking _oosquai_, Shaido maggot, I smell it on your stinking and rancid breath. How much _oosquai_ have you drunk this night, Cohradin-the-fool?"

"I do not know, I cannot really remember… and it is _still_ no jest! Wed me!"

"If it is no _jest_, lizard-faced Cohradin, then why do those Knife Hands over there clutch at each other's _cadin'sor_ and point and laugh like foolish children?"

"I do not- _ughhh!_"

"You should not have looked away like that, for Sulin of the Maidens kicks harder and faster than any wetland horse-beast! Now, do you stay down there, curled up on the ground and clutching crudely at your… yes, well, I will ask them myself..."

"You _kicked_ me in between of my legs, Sulin! That is _dishonourable!_ The Maidens of the Spear have no hon- _ughhh!_ You did it _again!_ _Uh!_ It is _painful!_"

"Would it perhaps be _more_ dishonourable to kick you hard in that same place for a _third_ time, rat-eyed Cohradin of the Stupid Knives… like _this?_"

"_Ughhh!_ Dishonourable… _yes_… uh… but _please _do not do… uhg… not do that _again_, Sulin…"

"Oh, I shall do worse to you than _that_, Cohradin-the-jester, for it is _more_ dishonourable to kiss a Maiden of the Spear upon her cheek when she had not given you permission to kiss her upon her cheek. You _still_ have much toh to me. _Dog!_"

"_Ughhh!_"

"Lay there grunting like the Knife Hand swine-creature that you are, blushing bridal-blossom bringer! Sulin of the Maidens shall properly begin your lessons in manners in a moment, dirty Shaido pig. _You_, Knife Hands – why do you laugh so, and why do those Red Shields next to you frown and pass you things?"

"This loud-mouthed Red Shield here who now gives to me a pouch of the fine Two Rivers tabac said that Cohradin would _not_ creep up to you and kiss you upon your cheek, Sulin of the Maidens, for fear of your anger. Cohradin kissed you to uphold the honour of the _Sovin Nai_ against the falsehoods of the foolish _Aethan Dor_. The skirt-wearing and the pretend bridal-wreath was _his_ idea, although. He thought that you would think it amusing, though both Chassin and I warned him that you would not."

"Yes, Gerom is correct in this, we _told_ Cohradin to not disguise himself as a woman and throw the false bridal-wreath at you _many_ times, many times indeed, we explained to him that you would not like it, Sulin, but though we are his near-brothers, he _never_ listens to us, or to anyone else either, even Sadora the Wise One. He _always_ thinks he knows best. Cohradin has a fine sense of humour but he does not think things through properly. When I saw that he would not be dissuaded from his plan, I _did_ give him the bootlaces to tie up the weeds and grasses and sticks and _rocha_-plants and other things… with."

"Thank-you for telling me of this, big hairy fool who looks like a stunted Treebrother and little tiny short scowling fool, both of the foolish Feather Hands. Now, watch closely, pussy-pawed Shaido striped-cats, while I show you why it is a _bad idea_ for your stupid Society Leader at stupid Wet Kiss Hold to press his vile scarred lips to a Maiden's cheek and to interrupt her conversations with a foolish jest about bridal-wreaths. _Stop_ trying to crawl away from me, much-bruised Cohradin of the filthy-fingers. Where do you think you are going? It is time for your lessons in mannerly behaviour to begin. Watch, fools, as I do _this!_"

"_Urghhhh!_"

"Did you _like_ that, one-eyed sneaking _ger'bil?_ Try _this!_"

"_Urghh!_ I did _not_ like that… please Sulin – _I apologise! – _it was but a jest…"

"And this is an even _better_ jest as far as I am concerned, for _why else_ do my spear-sisters gather around us and laugh and point at the Shaido worm cowering upon the sand at their feet? (_which you shall later massage!_) Though with but _one_ of your hands, as two of your fingers appear to be broken upon the other. Now… let us continue with your tutelage in the correct way to behave to a Spear-Maiden… _pig!_"

"_Urghh!_"

_Some Maidens just have no sense of humour, Cohradin considered, later. Unfortunately, Sulin of the Taardad appeared to be one of them… the kiss was bad enough, but mayhap she would have only broken one of his fingers if he had stopped there? He really should not have worn a Wise One's apparel and given her that funny-looking bridal-wreath. He always went too far! Although Chassin and Gerom and the rest of the Sovin Nai and some of the Aethan Dor and even a few of the younger Far Dares Mai who didn't like Sulin later told him that it had been quite amusing. And had he not done it, he might never have drunk even more oosquai to dull the great pain he was in and would hardly have formulated his clever plan for sneaking into Rhuidean and hunting for the mysterious and elusive Jenn Aiel, to prove to old Sadora that they existed! _

_Cohradin should probably not have gone into that red stone doorway thing and talked to the Foxmen though… he didn't really remember much about what had happened on the other side, except that they had not seemed to like him very much, but that was hardly out of the ordinary… but he really should not have been in Rhuidean at all, especially not with that big flask of oosquai to keep things going… and having failed to find and catch a Jenn, he should not have wandered into the centre of the strange, unfinished city, he should have just left. _

_But of course, he did not._

* * *

><p><strong>striding further… <strong>

Why am I in Rhuidean? I do not know. How did I get here? _Oosquai_…

It was easily the strangest night of his life, and one-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ had stuffed many a strange night into his twenty-eight years-worth of dangerous and foolish existence. Though the strangeness occurred later, _after_ Cohradin had received his worst beating ever from the humourless Maiden and drunk nearly all of the _oosquai_ that his near-brothers could not manage to imbibe… or _would_ not.

After three small silver cups to be polite, Gerom had gone to hang a foolish lantern in his foolish tent and smoke his foolish pipe and read a foolish book… no, books at least were not foolish, though everything _else_ was… _and_ Cohradin happened to know that there was a tall, blonde Nakai Wise One's apprentice who was also 'bookish' and had told Gerom she would stop by his tent to 'read' later, so it was safe to assume that his near-brother's plans for the evening would have a more pleasant resolution than that his own had lead to.

Meanwhile Chassin, who was small (though few dared to say so more than once) and had less room to spread the _oosquai_ out inside of him, had soon passed-out and now lay with his mouth open, snoring gently and sprawled too near to the fire so that his _cadin'sor_ was beginning to smoulder. Cohradin crawled slowly toward his diminutive near-brother and pulled Chassin further away from the flames with one hand, because the other had three of the fingers bound together with rawhide. Fortunately, it was only his right hand and not the striking hand that he had trained and toughened ever since he was a small (and very naughty) boy, ready and able to stab through things that a non-Knife Hand could not. Most _Sovin Nai_ used their _right_ hands to strike instead of their left, but Cohradin (who was also right-handed) liked to do unexpected things in the dance. And not just in the dance.

Cohradin abruptly did something unexpected when he lurched to his feet and went for a walk, stepping awkwardly over his comatose brother Knife Hands from the other Septs and Holds, limping slowly off into the darkness with a large flask full of _oosquai_ gripped in his uninjured… in his _less_ injured hand. His striking hand… but also, his _drinking_ hand! This had only been stamped upon once, fortunately… Sulin of the Taardad had been quite upset with him for what had seemed like a long time before he lost consciousness, but at least when the _toh_-giving was finally done he had not been forced to massage the other Maiden's feet as she had darkly threatened… her lanky and leathery spear-sisters had all loudly declared that they did not want Cohradin to touch them with his crooked pig-trotters, and had made many another similar remark also, mostly to do with the dirty, sneaking, one-eyed Shaido's close resemblance to wetlander swines and hogs of all kinds. _Maidens! _

Unfortunately, whilst staggering along the perimeter of the mysterious grey smoke that hung over Rhuidean, Cohradin drunkenly imagined he might have seen something moving about in there, and this got him thinking (if such a term could be applied to what was meanderingly going on inside his head) about the Jenn Aiel and whether they were real or not. Perhaps they were just a children's story, like _Vron'Cor_, the Nightwatcher?

Or _mayhap_ the Jenn were like the mysterious Great Bird of Shara – you thought that it could not _possibly_ exist, but then you accidentally stepped upon a big egg whilst being in Shara when you were not supposed to be and an enormous furious yellow beast-bird the size of a Treebrother rushed up to you squawking angrily and stabbed you in the face with its great long bill… gave you a terrible wound, because you were too surprised that it actually _existed_ to even jump out of the way! Did the Jenn Aiel have beaks also?

Cohradin hoped not, he really did. He did not care for beaks. And he had no wish to dance the bills with the Great Bird of Shara ever again, it had been _very_ upset about the egg… so, he had fled swiftly and shamefully from the big-bird-battlefield, run faster than he ever had before, a hand clutched to his ruined face. The wrathful beast-bird had pursued him a goodly distance before eventually giving up the chase and returning to its nest, no-doubt to lay a new egg, like a chicken's, only many times larger.

The Great Bird was a fool, why did it build its nest down upon the _ground_, instead of up in one of the odd spongy Sharan trees? Cohradin had run from the dreadful yellow monster when he would not have run from Sightblinder himself… there had just been something so disconcerting about a creature Jain Charin described (and Cohradin foolishly scoffed at) suddenly and vengefully attacking him! But he was a coward for running and not standing and facing his feathered opponent and being waked from the Dream by its huge bill, and sometimes Cohradin yet had ill dreams where the Great Bird chased him swiftly for many miles, shouting angrily!

Cohradin had had _two_ eyes in his head before that foolish egg got in the way… his memories of that terrible day were imperfect, he had been feeling _very_ odd since he broke his fast… had it not happened..? yes, _whilst_ he was slaying the small purple furry Shara-creatures with the large eyes… several of them had attacked from the bushes, calling out to him in their strange high-pitched voices, alarming him considerably, and had grabbed at his legs and tried to eat him, though they were not very strong. What had they _meant?_

"_E'gg! E'gg! Ca're'fu'll Co'hra'di'n! Ne'st! E'gg!_"

"_Ne've'r li'ste'n! Bi'g Bi'rd co'mi'ng! Ne've'r li'ste'n to nea'r bro'the'rs!_"

_What_ had the foolish creatures said? Their squeaking voices had been very hard to understand whilst they were ineffectually assaulting him. The fools! Could they not see he was much _larger_ than they? And how did they know his _name?_ Were they speaking in the Old Tongue? e_'gg?_ egg? They seemed to be similar words. Was it the same word in the Vulgar-speech? Perhaps… Had they meant the _egg_ that he had stepped on because they had _pushed_ him? It was _their_ fault, not _his_, the purple fools! They should _not _have tried to dance the spears with him, the strange small creatures (all though they did not _have_ spears) and they should definitely _not_ have disturbed and disquieted him by grabbing at his knees with the soft hands at the ends of their long stringy arms…

Sulin of the Taardad had arms a bit like that, though without the fur of course… and her arms were _much_ stronger… though she had mostly kicked him and trod on him, only putting him in a strangling choke-hold when he started saying rude (yet true) things, things about her family… the purple hands that seized at his shins had been unclawed, had they not..? Foolish to attack, without claws… they had not had any teeth in their large gaping mouths either, just the red thing… and the round blue noses between their big staring eyes, naturally… odd colouring, how could you hide in the bushes with a nose of that colour? What _were_ they? He had never seen anything quite like them!

Except perhaps during his _Sovin Nai_ initiation when he ate the special cactus and saw… no, Cohradin did not want to think about some of the things that he had seen that night… it was not _fair_, Chassin had seen pale-skinned, naked ladies picking flowers and Gerom had seen a bear reading a book by candlelight… he said the bear had a strange square hat upon its head, with a tail like the tail of an _algai'd'siswai_… but instead of pleasant-yet-confusing visions, Cohradin had seen nightmarish things! The brown beast with six legs and the long nose… no! do not think of it… and the other things besides… the strange-nosed sharp-toothed creature who kept _counting_ everything… and laughing, laughing loudly indeed… no, do not think of that either!

These savage purple fools with their ridiculous blue noses, calling out his name and threatening him with some kind of a spearweapon… what in the Pit was a '_Bi'g Bi'rd?_' perhaps it was not a weaponspear, but that they were they calling _him_ rude names, as the Maidens often did? He would not take their insults! Stop grabbing at me with your soft offensive hands, purple creatures! Let us dance the… oh, it is not worth it, I shall just shoot them all down with my arrows instead… they will pay for their vocal effrontery! Which he could not really understand, but assumed were battle-cries, like the high-pitched pipes that summoned the blood and prepared an _algai'd'siswai_ for the coming Dance. And they should _not_ have approached him so suddenly! It had made him angry and confused at the same time!

Well, the purple goats should _not_ have attacked him, for he was _algai'd'siswai_ and _Sovin Nai_, and he slew them all with great Honour before the Great Bird arrived on its long orange legs… when he roared angrily, his attackers had run from him like cowardly Shaarad and he had shot them down with his arrows for they were not worthy opponents for his spears. He wished he might have skinned one of the creatures (though the thin, purple pelt did not look of much value) so that he could have shown it at Wet Sands… he had wished to see what the small bobbing creatures tasted like, but there had not been time to butcher one properly before he had to flee from the Great Bird that so severely injured him… no doubt their flesh would have tasted rank, their thin watery blood had looked unappetising…

The day Cohradin took the scar and lost his eye… that had been a _bad_ day, and also, a very _odd_ one… very strange, very strange indeed… he had taken a terrible wound and the small, pointed and strange-tasting Sharan mushrooms he had eaten that morning had given him a sickly stomach also. Perhaps the Great Bird had only been very large and brown? With a curved, cruel beak, instead of the long bill? Why had he thought it yellow and why had all of the other colours around him seemed so much _brighter_ than they usually did, so that he had been staring at everything wide-eyed and did not notice the large egg until it was all over his boot?

Had the purple creatures even _been_ there, or had he imagined them? They had not _sounded_ like Gerom and Chassin (well, perhaps Chassin, though his voice was not pitched quite _that_ high) but they had seemed to yelp the sort of things he had heard Gerom and Chassin say to him when he did something foolish… it had seemed rather peculiar that they had known his name also, perhaps they had heard tell of his deeds..? Chassin was not _much_ taller than they… perhaps they were his distant kin who had gone to Shara and grown purple fur on their bodies? Cohradin was not sure…

Also strange… the Great _brown_ Bird always appeared as yellow with the long orange legs when it chased him in his nightmares, and when it shouted at him (it had not spoken whilst he danced with it, just squawked loudly and with great rage) it _always_ threatened to take his remaining eye when it caught him… and for some reason, it always squawked with the quavering voice of old Sadora the Wise One… well, dreams could be odd. But there were places in the waking world that could be decidedly _odder_.

Shara _was_ an unusual place, the Great Bird particularly, but almost everything else too. A bit _too_ unusual in fact! Cohradin did not think he would go back there again. He had sneaked into Shara several times since he was a boy and had seen some of the strange things that Jain Farstrider had seen, and even a few that he had not.

Those foolish fellows with their heads in their bellies, for example… no, that had been the _next _day when he was still feeling odd and was lying by the river waiting to see if he would die… but he had not! Someone had tended and bandaged his wound very skilfully while he slept. So he lay there, all day, in the strange bed suspended between the two Shara-trees. There had been a peculiar frog-creature in the lake nearby (had there not?) which had kept speaking to him in a croaky voice, calling him '_si'r_' and asking him many questions… but Cohradin had resolutely ignored the talking-beast until it gave-up and swam slowly away. He was starting to think that some of the things he had seen in Shara lately were not real, and were actually just in his own head.

This same head pounded for about a month, but Cohradin had been able to make it back to Wet Sands, where old Sadora had tended his injury further. And waited till he got better. And then reached for her extra-heavy stick because he had been to Forbidden Shara again when he should not. Cohradin did not care, it was better to go to Shara than to not go to Shara, in his estimation… though he had to adjust his movements in the dance to compensate for the lost eye… the lost vision… could it be that all he had seen in Shara had been just that, mere visions?

Perhaps the Headbelly-Men had not been real either, though they had seemed real and had come and attempted to talk to Cohradin in their deep voices with their strange speech, at least until he shouted at them to leave him alone and they had shrugged their unrelieved shoulders and gone back inside the three-sided pointy thing they lived in… a strange-looking Hold for a strange-looking folk… though perhaps it was one of _them_ who had tended his wound, and left him the large bag of sesame seeds to eat on the way home?

Cohradin should not have rudely shouted at the Headbelly-Men, mayhap, but he had been feeling strained and weak and in a bad mood, after the unusual things he had witnessed the day before, and had therefore not been happy to see men with their heads in their bellies, even if they _had_ helped him. A man's head should be upon his neck, _not_ looking at you through the embroidered hole in his shirt… no, they could _not_ have been real, he had imagined them, like the small purple creatures… but who had cleaned and dressed his wound, then? Shara was full of unanswered questions!

Cohradin went to Forbidden Shara when he was not supposed to because (as did his favourite wetlander, the Malkieri traveller-and-writer Jain called-Farstrider) he liked to see things for himself and not just read about them. He slowly drank more _oosquai _whilst he thought about not liking beaks. His mind (or what passed for it) then drifted awhile in a sea of drunken and self-involved speculation…

When Cohradin came back to what little senses he had, he realised that he had been in Rhuidean for some time, searching through the great stone Holds for the Jenn Aiel. How had he got there? There had been some grey smoke all around him for a time, had there not? But he was not sure. He did not think that he had ever been _this_ drunk in his entire life! At least the contusions left by Sulin's boots and fists and knees and elbows had faded to a dull ache. Oh well, he was here now, as long as he stayed away from wherever it was the Wise Ones went, and foolish Mangalin also, then he would perhaps not get into trouble. He might as well find the Jenn while he was here, if it could be done.

Chassin always claimed that no-one had ever seen a Jenn Aiel because they were made out of glass and did not wear their _cadin'sor_, so were very difficult to see. Gerom scoffed politely at such foolishness… _his_ considered theory was that the Jenn looked _exactly_ like other Aiel, but were just very, very _small_ and rode around on jumping fleas (like pitiful wetlanders clinging to the backs of their leaping horse-creatures) so were hard to notice also, for this more intelligent reason. Cohradin simply did not believe that the Jenn Clan (that was not a Clan) even existed, he thought they were but a legend become mythic, like _Vron'Cor_ or the Horn of Valere.

* * *

><p><strong>Foxed!<strong>

Where was he? Why was his one-eyed vision all blurred? Why did he only have one eye anyway? Did he go somewhere? Where had he gone? Was this still Rhuidean? What was _Rhuidean?_ And who was that strange fellow over there, the one who looked a bit like a fox? Never mind _that_, what was that _smell?_ Was it _him?_ He did not think so… though it might be… no, it was coming from the fox-man… wait, where was his _oosquai_ flask? Where was- oh, it was in his hand… hold a moment… why was he so very _drunk?_ And what was his _name..?_ Lizard-head? No… no, that was not it… hmm… a big tree..? _drunk_… red… stone… door-thing..? _drunk_… a bright light… a very loud noise… _drunk_… and in…

_Oh… Sulin beat me so I had to drink more oosquai to dull the pain when I did not wish it… it is therefore her fault I am in Rhuidean, for she does not have a sense of humour, and neither do her spear-sisters (who helpfully kicked me whilst Sulin was getting her breath back prior to making me give her yet more toh…) Maidens!_

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, as though somebody wanted to get his attention. He turned his bleary gaze on the Foxman, swaying slightly. The Foxman blinked its strange, pale eyes, then pointed a claw at his knife and yelped.

He remembered that he was still holding the _oosquai _flask in his less damaged hand and raised it to his lips, taking a fiery sip. He optimistically knew that the flask was still half-_full_, and he would attempt to drink it _all _before he passed-out or his name was not one-handed Karadin of the… of the… oh, he had forgotten that there was a Foxman. It was waving at him to get his attention. He smiled at it in a friendly way, then hiccupped loudly.

Perhaps the Foxman would like a sip of his _oosquai? _Did Foxmen drink _oosquai?_ What _was_ a Foxman anyway? A man… who looked like… a fox! Not the proper desert fox, but the red-haired wetland fox… (for he had seen pictures of it, had he not?) and so… a Foxman! It was obvious! But he still did not know what Foxmen _were_, or even if there was more than _one_ of them… he would ask Gerom about Foxmen if he remembered to… but who was Gerom? For that matter, who was _he?_

Then, the Foxman said something to him in its fox-voice; words that sounded a bit like the Old Tongue Gerom talked sometimes… _Gerom is the one who talks the Old Tongue!_ He is short, and has scars on both cheeks… no… that is someone else… but he did not understand the Foxman and shook his head slowly. The Foxman frowned, then seemed to be trying to remember something, pursing its fox-lips and furrowing its fox-brow. These Foxmen were… they were… what was his _name?_

"_Nay… cowlde… iron_…" The Foxman's voice sounded strange, strange indeed. It then nodded, and looked quite pleased with itself. It pointed a claw (it is not well, to have claws) at his knife again.

Ah, the foolish Foxman… (why does he look like a fox? it is not well, I think, to look like a fox…) the manfox, it does not _like_ his knife… it thinks that it is made out of gold… irons? Golden iron? What is..? _Cohradin!_ _It meant 'Brother of the Dance!' _That_ was what his mother had called him! Yes!_

"_Nay… iron!_"

Cohradin then patiently explained to the foolish Foxman that the long knife of an _algai'd'siswai_ he proudly wore on his belt was _not _forged of 'golden iron' (whatever foolish thing _that_ was) but good _steel_, made by Gerom's near-cousin's mother's daughter's sister-son's great-father, Darim, Blacksmith of Wet Sands Hold, whose wife Dallilla, who _hated_ him (there were few women of his Sept, wives _or_ widows _or_ wives expecting to become widows, who did not!) where was he…? oh, yes, Darim's horrible wife Dallilla was _also_ Chassin's sister-mother's near-sister's father-brother's sister-son! No… no, that could not be right… there was something wrong there, he would have to start again… so he did. Though he was slurring his words badly… but it was no matter, for he was _still _going to drink _all_ of the _oosquai _in his flask, just to prove that he _could _and that he was _not_ afraid of Foxmen!

The Foxman seemed disinterested in both the amusing co-incidence _and_ his commitment to remaining drunk until dawn whilst not being scared of Foxmen, so presumably it had no sense of humour, like a humourless wetlander, or Sulin. At least it let him keep his knife, for it was his _favourite_ knife – Darim was a good Blacksmith, a good Blacksmith indeed, though sometimes he sang foolish songs after he drank too much _oosquai_ as Cohradin had also done that night, a truly _heroic _amount of _oosquai_, the most he had ever drunk ever before… though when _he_ sang, it was not foolish, not foolish at all… where was..? oh, yes, the _oosquai_ which had helped him to form his wise plan for sneaking into Rhuidean to hunt for the Jenn Aiel in the first place! (No, wait, there had been _no_ plan he had just sort of involuntarily trespassed where he should not, yet again.) But only _after_ Gerom had gone to bed and Chassin (who had a weak head and could not take his _oosquai_) had passed-out! Though they were his near-brothers, Cohradin did _not_ wish to share with them the honour of catching a Jenn and bringing it to show to old Sadora, thus proving that there _were_ Jenn to be found, and not just a myth!

At this point, the Foxman rudely snarled at Cohradin and put its paw (it is not well, to have paws… claws upon paws…) over its mouth, clearly wishing him to stop talking – he was so drunk he had not realised that he had actually been _saying_ all of that! The Foxman did not seem interested in his subsequent explanations of this foolish mistake either! So… he swiftly and cleverly drank some more _oosquai _to better help him to concentrate upon things better.

The strange, thin Foxcreature looked at him in a disappointed fashion, and shook its head a bit sadly. He offered the Foxman some of his _oosquai_ but it did not seem to want any and sneered at him, wrinkling its fox-nose.

"_Nay_," the Foxman growled, so Cohradin pretended that he could not hear it, cupping a hand over one ear in a comedic manner and looking quizzical, so it repeated the word louder but he continued to feign deafness until the Foxcreature got exasperated and shouted; "_naayyy!_" and then he amusingly asked it why it was making the cry of the foolish wetland horse-beast! Surely the 'yip' of the desert-fox would be more appropriate? But the Foxman did not seem to understand what a good joke this was. And it would not drink _oosquai_ with him! Did it think itself _better_ than he? But perhaps its fox-wife would not let it drink _oosquai_, as Darim's dreadful wife would not. But still… they were a dull lot, these Foxmen!

Angrily, Cohradin then poured more _oosquai_ into his mouth whilst turning his head so as to maintain one-eye-contact with the Foxman (to show it that he was certainly _not_ concerned by Foxmen) leaning right back as he drank, right back… but he foolishly managed to fall over. He examined the Foxman from the floor, where he lay awhile before attempting to rise. Was it going to try to attempt to eat him, as the dangerous purple creatures had done? It did not look as though it liked to eat or drink anything. But he was certain that if he could find a _chicken_, the Foxman would soon change its mind! But he did not know where he could find a chicken in the middle of the night inside of a confusing door-thing in the middle of Rhuidean… why had he not thought to bring a chicken with him..? fool! there were chickens to be had, were there not? but why..?

Cohradin could not remember, so he drank some more _oosquai_, easier to do whilst lying down. For though he had fallen upon his back in a stupor he had retained the grip of his powerful knife-hand upon the flask, and managed to hold it level, spilling not a drop. Sulin was a fool (though until his injuries healed he would only say so to her if she was some distance away) for she had deliberately broken the fingers of his _right_ hand, thinking _that_ was his knife-hand, when it had always been his left! Even so… _Sulin!_

Now the Foxman was staring at Cohradin's head in a funny way – he was not sure, but it was as if the Foxman was looking _inside_ his mind, looking at some of the noble things that he had done in the course of his proud and honour-filled life! It must be well, to be a Foxman, and to gaze upon the many adventures of so brave and heroic a man as he.

Cohradin's many proud exploits… like shooting-down with arrows the fleeing purple creatures… no, not that! (had that really happened? he hoped it had not, for he still felt mildly guilty about it) well then… what about the time he had skilfully waked some loud-mouthed Tomanelle for trying to stop him from milking that strange-looking one-horned goat he had found in the back of the cave… _that _had been a bold adventure, a bold adventure indeed… and despite all the trouble caused, the painful _toh_-giving that followed… the main point was that the goat was still _his_ goat.

Cohradin talked to his goat sometimes, telling it about his day and who he had danced the spears with… though of course, the animal was not a wetland 'pet' for that would be foolish. Its milk had run dry long ago, and had always been rather rancid milk anyway, not worth the trouble of drinking really… he had long intended to wake the beast from the goat-dream and eat its flesh… he had just not got round to it yet… it would probably not taste very nice anyway… but he was sure that he would slay the goat for its meat one day, it was inevitable, just as he would also kill Sightblinder…

For some odd reason, the Foxman did not seem to like what it saw when it looked at Cohradin in that strange way, and it started to look ill… and then sighed. He thought the Foxman looked sad, and offered it _oosquai_, in case it had changed its mind since the last time he offered it _oosquai_, but the Foxman refused again, in a more angry way than before even when it had sounded like the wetland horse-beast! They were _touchy_, these Foxmen, almost as bad as Chassin! Who was _Chassin?_

Cohradin's mind seemed to drift for a while so he drank some more _oosquai_ – the flask was now a quarter-full! Soon, it would be empty! And he would win something! Honour, perhaps? He decided to get up now. The Foxman watched as he struggled on his back, legs kicking and arms waving… and a strange look came over its fox-features for a moment. Cohradin did not think it felt sorry for him, he did not think it felt _anything_, at least not in the way _he_ did… but he had once seen a Sharan _tor'toise_ that had fallen off a rock onto its back… and Cohradin had looked at it as it struggled to right itself in much the same way as the Foxman had just looked at _him_… Cohradin had felt embarrassed for the strange Sharan shelled-lizard, though he had not let that stop him from waking it from the _tor'toise_-dream and eating it later. But in the Foxman's foxy face… a hint of that _same_ embarrassment… perhaps it would eat him later also… he should have brought a chicken for it! He would remember, the next time he came to the Foxman Hold… if he did not forget…

It took some time for Cohradin to get to his feet. The Foxman did not offer to help, though he would not have liked to hold one of its fox-hands in any case… these Foxmen were strange indeed… drifting along… drifting along with the Foxman… drifting down the… what was happening now? He seemed to be walking… oh yes, there was the Foxman in front of him, it kept looking over its shoulder and scowling at him and they were in some kind of strange long hall of the Fox Hold with windows looking out at things that did not make sense, so he did not trouble to look at them.

They walked for a time, whilst Cohradin loudly sang some of the rude songs that the young Gleeman Roth Blucha had taught to him, even though the Foxman kept growling at him and covering its strange pointed ears with its strange clawed hands. _Foxmen!_

But then… Cohradin suddenly realised that he needed to be very sick, and had leant out of one of the strange windows to do it, though the Foxman yapped at him and obviously did not wish it… too late Foxman! What was the problem, there were only strange plants and other things down there also… what were those things? These fox-things did not make fox-sense… but the vomit, it had not _landed_ on any of the Foxmen, for there were none down there, just the strange… things… what _were_ those things? and what did it matter if Cohradin was sick down there? He had to be sick _somewhere_, that was what happened when you drank too much _oosquai!_ Did the foolish Foxman not grasp this fact? Was it _stupid?_ Did the Foxman wish Cohradin to be sick onto the _floor_ of his hall-of-many-doors instead? _Did it?_

Suddenly, Cohradin realised that he was shouting at the Foxman, which had its fox-mouth hanging open, so he apologised to it and offered it some more _oosquai_, because Foxmen liked to drink _oosquai_, did they not? Oh, no, that was wrong, they did not… the Foxman made an odd yelping noise and turned away, its fox-head hunched down between its thin fox-shoulders, and as Cohradin was feeling better now after being sick he followed, pleased that he had been able to lean out of the window in time. It was well, to lean out of the fox-window in time when you had to be sick at Fox Hold. But he had better drink some more _oosquai_ before the Foxman could try to stop him! Oh no, that was also wrong, it had _not_ tried to… wait, Foxman! Don't walk so fast, my knee still hurts from where Sulin stamped on it… at least he had not been sick onto the fox-floor of Fox Hold… it was well, to not… not to… what?

Though in any case, it did not matter, for a little further down the hall Cohradin was again struck with the need to vomit! A far more urgent need this time, for he did not get as far as the window, and the Foxman barked angrily at him while shaking its fox-fist, even though Cohradin said he was sorry and used his _shoufa_ to mop up the worst of it. This Foxman was a fool! If he wished his silly long hall with doors that always showed the same foolish room to be _clean_, why, then, did he not summon one of his Fox _gai'shain_ to mop? Cohradin had seen no Foxmen wearing long white robes, so presumed them to be asleep in their fox-beds. In fact, he had seen no other Foxmen, but this was clearly a large Hold where many Foxmen could live and probably did… so where were they all then? They could not _all _be out herding their fox-goats… Cohradin realised that he had never really met a Foxman until today and knew _nothing_ of Foxmen, nothing whatsoever! They were mysterious creatures, these Foxcreatures!

The Foxman was growling and snapping at him and Cohradin realised that he had been saying all of this to it too! So he offered it some _oosquai_ again and the Foxman looked up at the ceiling and made a whiny noise. Cohradin did not wish to wear his shoufa anymore, so he tossed it out of another strange window, despite the Foxman yapping at him and waving its clawed hands. This window did not show the spongy plants, but a large thing that looked a bit like the odd crag above Three Peaks Hold, where Chassin's great-mother's first-sister's fox-daughter Bwalindra captured her unlucky husband when she finally decided to give up the spear, forcing the poor fellow to pick up her thorny bridal-wreath at knifepoint… _Women!_

The Foxman did not seem to want to hear about this either, it kept shaking its head and frowning and pointing its claws at its odd-looking ears. What was its problem? Did it not even know how to speak the Vulgar-tongue? Foolish Foxman!

Cohradin was starting to sense that the Foxman might be beginning to become angry with him by the time he was rather rudely pushed into the big room where the Sept Chief of Fox Hold sat upon a tall, odd-looking Chief's chair, with both of his wives attending – no doubt there to yip and yap at him and tell him what to do! The Fox-wives of the Fox Chief sat upon strange Chief's chairs also, which was odd, for there could be but one Chief of the Fox Sept, surely? Cohradin assumed that one or both of these Foxwomen were Fox Wise Ones (at least one of the wives of Chiefs usually were) in which case the poor foxfellow was lucky they had permitted him to sit upon a foxchair in his own foxhold at all! _Wise Ones!_

Oddly, Cohradin felt as though he wanted to be near-friends with them all, _especially_ his Foxman guide who he suspected he might have offended with his crude behaviour, so he offered it some _oosquai_ again, nodding and smiling encouragingly… but the Foxguide just stared at him for a long moment, then made an odd, whimpering sound, dropped to its paws and ran away through the door and off down the hall. Running on all fours! Just like a fox! They were strange, these Foxguides!

The Sept-Fox of Fox Hold and his Foxwives did not want any _oosquai _either, and were all looking at Cohradin as though they did not like him, though they had all only just met and they had no idea what kind of a fine person he was. But Cohradin often met others who took an instant dislike to him for some reason, so did not mind too much. At this point, he decided that it would be well to drink some more _oosquai_.

Suddenly, Cohradin felt the need to urinate! But the Fox-chief refused to tell him where the place of convenience was, or if indeed there _was_ one… even if the Sept-Fox, like the foolish Guide-Fox, did not speak the Vulgar, surely he should have understood his gestures and miming, to indicate what he needed to do? The Fox-chief just kept growling and shaking his head while his Fox-wives sneered at Cohradin and whispered to each other in what might have been the Old Tongue, but he was not sure. No doubt saying rude things about him, in his hearing, that he could not understand. Just like the Maidens, with their finger-insults! But perhaps there _was_ no place of convenience in Fox Hold? Perhaps Foxmen did not _need_ to urinate? That would be strange, strange indeed… they were strange people, these Foxpeople!

The Fox-Chief refused to answer Cohradin's searching questions about this, however, and seemed to be waiting for something, for it kept looking impatiently toward the foolishly-shaped door. Cohradin shrugged and squatted down easily, drinking some more _oosquai_ and trying to ignore his full bladder. He noted that the Fox-wives were looking at him disapprovingly, it seemed, and then one of them made a loud sniffing sound. Perhaps he stank of vomit a little? Or mayhap it was that he was covered in scrapes and bruises, his _cadin'sor_ much-stained with his own blood? And stained with other things besides, though he did not know what they were…

Cohradin scowled, ignoring the foolish Foxfolk for the time being, considering how best to obtain his revenge upon Sulin for the ferocious public beating she had administered… though it would be difficult… _difficult?_ It would be _impossible!_ This was Sulin of the Taardad, after all! She had killed more men than the Black Fever! Cohradin growled angrily and the Foxwives blinked at each other and gave him a surprised look… though he barely noticed… thinking that he would very much like to take Sulin _gai'shain_ and save up all of his laundry until he had nothing left to wear but his veil – and then dump it all on his old _gai'shain_ to do in one wash!

Yes, Sulin scraping the soap over his soiled _cadin'sor_ and other garments, whilst he watched carefully and told her to pay particular care to his smallclothes, to make sure that they were soft and pliant and comfortable for him to wear whilst he danced the spears… it would be well to reduce Sulin to such humbleness! _Then_ she would be like one of those wetland maid-servants in the picture in the romantic book about the Sun-Queen who took seven husbands (odd customs, these Sun-Queens!) that Gerom once showed to him… Cohradin grinned at the thought of Sulin, dressed in one of those strange outfits with the odd dress and the frilly apron-thing and the little lacy cap… slaving for some spoiled Wetland Lord in his Treekiller Hold, summoning her to pour for him the fruit-punch that he was too lazy to pour for himself! An amusing image! But only an image, unfortunately…

It was no good, the need to _go_ was too intense to ignore any longer. Shaking his head at the great unlikelihood of his ever making Sulin _gai'shain_, Cohradin rose, staggered over to the far wall whilst loosening the front of his britches and, despite the angry snarling from the Fox-Chief and his Fox-wives, proceeded to relieve himself… such a relief! It was then, over the steady '_psshhing_' sound, that he first heard the approaching footsteps, echoing down the long hall.

Proper _footsteps_, made by _boots_ – not the pitter-patter of clawed foxfeet! Continuing to urinate (only half-done, little choice but to continue) Cohradin turned his head the wrong way, remembered that he did not have an eye on that side, and turned to look over the other shoulder, staring at the person (_not_ a foxperson but a _real_ one!) who had appeared in the many-sided doorway. His mouth fell open.

The fellow was tall, tall as an Aiel, and richly (if oddly) dressed… a long, dark coat, emblazoned with multicoloured diamonds, draped over a green silken shirt and silvery britches tucked into elaborate and ornately-worked boots… a mane of dark red hair falling to his wide shoulders… but what _really_ grabbed Cohradin's attention was the fellow's _face_ (though it could not be seen) for he wore a strange mask worked from beaten-copper, which covered his features and ears. He was clearly a man like Cohradin, without the too-tall-and-skinny foxbuild of the Foxfolk… but the _mask!_

Bright blue eyes stared from the eyeholes of the copper mask. Which was cunningly-fashioned into the shape of a smiling fox's face! Cohradin stared, a little fatalistically. The first person he had seen since he came here who was _not _a Foxman (or a scowling, shrewish Foxwife, for that matter) was _still_ fox-like in that they wore a _fox-mask!_ There was _far too much_ foxstuff in Fox Hold, Cohradin was beginning to think…

The Fox-masked fellow bowed perfunctorily to the Fox-chief and his Fox-wives, resting a gloved hand momentarily on the folded-over top of a long, ochre-coloured boot… sweeping the other arm back a little… a very strange bow, certainly.

"_Eelfinn_," Foxmask stated, as though in acknowledgement, speaking in a fine, mellow voice which rolled sonorously from the confines of his mask. The Fox-chief just stared at him coldly, as though he did not like the fellow any more than he liked Cohradin. But after a moment, the Fox-chief grudgingly inclined its head a little, though his Fox-wives did not. In fact, they both sniffed loudly, in unison.

With the formalities clearly over, Foxmask turned, and for the first time seemed to notice what Cohradin had been _doing_; the dark stain against the wall, the yellow puddle at his soft-booted feet… the fellow stared for a moment, his blue eyes widening to fill the copper-rimmed eye-holes of his strange mask… and then, a soft, low chuckling noise began to echo from beneath the copper snout! Foxmask was _laughing!_ The laughter went on for a time, whilst the Fox-Chief and his Foxwives shifted on their chief's chairs and muttered no-doubt uncomplimentary things under their breath. Foxmask finally quieted, still shaking his hidden head in amusement, then jestingly raised an admonitory finger, wagging it at Cohradin a few times! His blue eyes seemed to twinkle a little. And then he winked!

Still shaking his head, shoulders shaking a little with suppressed laughter, Foxmask turned away, the myriad-hued diamond-shaped patches decorating his long leather coat seeming to shift and scintillate in the low light… the fellow jerked a thumb at Cohradin, as he did-up his britches, and then thumped himself on the chest as he faced the scowling Fox-Chief once more. The man in the Fox-mask pointed firmly at Cohradin, uttering a single, loud word, which echoed in the Room of Bonds.

"_Mya!_"

* * *

><p><strong>the morning after the night before…<strong>

Someone was poking him… poking him insistently awake. Was it one of the Foxmen? Cohradin woke (though immediately wished he had not) to find himself laying sprawled upon sand well-seeded with sharp rocks, some of which were digging into his face, and other parts of him also. He had the worst head-ache he had ever had in his cursed existence (except, of course, for the one after the Great Bird of Shara pecked him so viciously in the face.) He yawned and groaned and tried to stand, but could barely lift his face from the puddle of dried vomit – had _he_ done that? There had been something that happened last night, had there not? Had he waked someone and nearly started a blood-feud… _again?_ No… it was definitely _worse_ than that… there had been a foolish red door and… and some Foxpeople… but what were Foxpeople? People who looked like foxes, presumably… and he had angered them in some way… but they had angered him also, _and_ they had stolen his _oosquai!_ Perhaps they had given him something in return for it..? A gift? But no. Absurd! He must have imagined it all…

A spear-butt prodded him hard in the shoulder and Cohradin glanced up, wincing and squinting and trying to shield his eye from the terrible dawn sun with trembling hands. There was someone standing silhouetted there, a woman perhaps, though since she was only poking him rudely with her spear, rather than kicking him and beating him with a large stick, he could only assume that she was not old Sadora.

Cohradin took a closer squint, blinking back many tears… she was a tall and perhaps redheaded Maiden of the Spear, young, with a very fine bosom… and the cut of her _cadin'sor_ immediately told him that she was a tricksome Taardad and that she was of the cowardly Nine Valleys Sept and… and his head felt like it was about to burst like an over-ripe melon. She poked him again, to alleviate boredom perhaps, since he was clearly awake… sleeping people do not tend to moan or whimper, unless they are having a bad dream.

Cohradin was having a bad dream even though he _was_ awake. Why did the first person he saw on this horrible morning have to be a _Maiden?_ Even if she _did_ have a full and attractive cleavage. Women were so much more disapproving about an honest _algai'd'siswai_ having a few flasks of _oosquai_ after a hard day of dancing the spears with random strangers… milking strange goats… big birds of Shara… what had he _done_ last night..? there had been a large tree, had there not..? yes, a _red_ tree with Foxpeople hiding inside of it… but _where_ had it been? You could not fit a whole tree inside of a tent… unless it was a very _large_ tent… he was not sure, he would have to ask Gerom. The Maiden tossed her head so that her warrior's tail bounced upon her back. She then sniffed, with great disapproval, her full lips writhing in a cold sneer of disgust.

"You _stink,_ sneaking Shaido!" she declared, loudly. The Taardad Maiden had one of those voices that seemed designed to pierce straight through the red mist of a man's morning-head and stab directly into his aching brain. Cohradin shuddered and hoped that he could somehow escape from this horrid virago (she was a beauty, though, with fine kissable lips and short red-gold hair that caught the sun, but would have been _far_ more attractive to him without that permanent scowl on her icy face!)

"What are you mumbling, dirty Shaido lizard? I cannot understand you."

Oh, had he been _speaking?_ He _really_ had to stop doing that! It was well that she had not understood. Cohradin coughed and spat, and managed to roll a little away from the vomit, though the effort made his head pound as though Darin the Blacksmith were beating upon it with his largest hammer. The vile Maiden sniffed again, and poked him hard in the ribs with her spear-butt, also again.

"Go away from me… leave a man in peace…" Cohradin managed to groan.

The Maiden stayed there, glaring at him disapprovingly and shaking her head slowly from side to side.

"I feel as though _Shai'tan_ has defecated inside of my skull," Cohradin added.

"Eurgh! You are disgusting, squealing Shaido swine-pig! What a _disgusting_ thing to say, you sicken me! Wait… _I_ know who you are…"

Dreadful, but at least she was not old Sadora… though would no doubt be _just_ like her one day. What did he _do_ last night? There had been a big tree… a bald man sitting there, smiling at him… and casting no shadow… a door-thing made of twisty-turny stones… red in hue… Foxmen and Foxwives… a masked Manfox… oh, and a big square full of silly things that you could see through… yes, Mangalin had been inside one of them, weeping like a woman listening to a Gleeman sing a sad ballad about some long-haired fellow who gets impaled on a dishonourable sword instead of kissing Sulin… on her scarred… leathery… Rhuidean..? _Rhuidean! Oh no! _He had trespassed _there_ of all places? How much _oosquai_ did he drink? He was a fool!

"_I know you!_ You are he with the one eye and the scar who makes trouble and widows and starts feuds and goes to Shara when he is not supposed to go to Shara!"

The young Taardad Maiden's voice was like tiny spears being poked into his brain and Cohradin moaned loudly, waving his hands in desperation but the Maiden would not be silent! Tiny spears… now what did _that _make him think of?

"Cohradin, the Wet Sands sneaking Shaido, _that_ is your name – you are the one that Sulin beat so badly last night when you kissed her upon the cheek! _And_ dressed as a woman and gave her a stupid bridal-wreath that was not even a proper bridal-wreath! Was that supposed to be funny? You think that you are funny, Cohradin, but you are not! Also, I hear that Marindha is very angry with you for taking her clothes whilst she was in the sweat-tent and she means to beat you to within an inch of your pitiful excuse for a life, as do several other Wise One's apprentices also! What do you say to that?"

"Aaahh," said Cohradin, clutching at his aching head.

"Pathetic! I am glad that _I_ am not a Wise One's apprentice (particularly to bad-tempered Sadora!) and am a Maiden of the Spear instead! Cohradin,_ my_ father-brother Rhuarc says that _you_ should go to Rhuidean and unfortunately return (unlike stupid Mangalin!) because _my _father-brother, the Clan Chief of the Taardad, says you should go and return because _you_ are exactly the sort of man the Shaido _deserve_ to have as _their_ Clan Chief!"

"Let foolish Suladric take his turn in stead of me… or Muradin, or that imbecile first-brother of his, Couladin, if they will even _let_ him… but I have no wish to be Clan Chief… or even Sept Chief of Wet Sands, as was my father… I would far sooner be a… a peddler!"

"_What_ did you say, sneaking Shaido? I did not understand your mumbling."

"I said that-"

"_I_ think that you _should_ be Clan Chief of the sneaking Shaido, Cohradin, because _then_ you would foolishly lead the entire Clan sneaking into the Blight to hunt the Dark One! Would you not, Cohradin? I expect that you would."

"What kind of a stupid question is that? _Ahh_, my head… _Of course_ were I Clan Chief I would lead them all to Shayol Ghul to kill Sightblinder! _Ahhh_… _and_ his worm-pets… it would be the _only_ course of action to be taken, for even if the whole of the Shaido fell in the dance, there would _still_ be much honour gained! _Ahhhh_…"

"You are a big fool, Cohradin! But it would be well for you to be Clan Chief for then there would _be_ no more Shaido and our nanny-goats would finally be safe!"

"It was _my_ goat, I had every right to gather its milk! _You _are the big fool, girl, for you will prance about with your man's spear for another year and _then_ you will meet some tall fellow with fine red hair and grey eyes that sparkle like shiny rocks in the sun and he will have a slippery smile and winning ways and you will swoon like a wetland Princess who wishes to be licked by toads (or whatever the Gleeman said happened) and your hastily-made bridal-wreath will have barely touched the ground and raised dust before the smirking fellow seizes it up and you proceed to leap on him like a female scorpion in heat and before you know it you will have birthed at least _four_ of his winging babies and- _oww!_"

The Maiden was scowling darkly and poking Cohradin again, but this time she had reversed her spear and was using the sharp end, drawing small amounts of blood each time. Cohradin decided to leave it there for the time being, he had only been getting _started_… but why did Maidens and Wise Ones and Foxwomen and widows and Foxwidows _hate_ him so very much? He was a reasonable man, was he not?

"I will _never_ give up the spear for a _man_, no matter _how_ tall or handsome!"

"I did not _say_ he would be _handsome_. He will probably have burns on his hand or something else wrong with him to want to marry y- _owww!_ Stop doing that, wench! I am having a bad morning! Go and chase an _ostrich_-bird instead!"

"There is no such thing as an _ostrich_-bird… they do not exist even if the lying wetlander Jain Farstrider says they do and you are also a _liar!_ And I will run with my spear-sisters till I wake from the dream! I would dance the spears with you right now, Cohradin, if you but had any spears. You do not."

"I do! _See?_"

"What is this foolishness, Cohradin? You show me three toy spears that are no longer than your fingers that Sulin stamped upon with her foot! You are an idiot!"

"Silence, girl – your voice is like the hissing of many lizards and wasps and snakes and Sharan striped-cats! Can not you tell when a man has a morning-head?"

"You _stink_, Cohradin! You are covered in your own sick, and you _stink!_ You have been drinking too much _oosquai!_ Only a fool drinks too much _oosquai _and tries to kiss Sulin on the cheek because some Red Shields say he will not! Only a sneaking stinking stupid Shaido finds himself out here on the slopes of Chaendaer instead of returning to his goat-senses back in his tent, laying there with his head pounding and not being able to remember what foolish things he did last night! Only a great big imbecile like _you_, Cohradin… are you _listening_ to me, Cohradin? Are you listening..?"

By this point, Cohradin was slowly dragging himself away on his elbows. Doubtless the girl would soon give up the spear, make a bridal-wreath for some poor drunken fool to accidentally pick up and proceed to make the rest of his pitiful life a pure misery in this loud and persistent fashion… what had happened to his _shoufa?_ Had the Foxmen stolen that as well? And what was that _smell?_ Oh… it was _him_… he forgot. But the Foxmen had given him something, had they not? Though they had _not _given what he asked for – they had tricked him! Tricksome Taardad Foxes! It should not be allowed! _Foxmaidens!_

Cohradin had wanted to go back and dance the spears with those deceitful Foxmen, even though he was not sure where his proper normal-sized spears exactly were, but the second time he ran through the red stone door, shouting with rage, he had just gone right through the other side and crashed into some statue things, which he might have broken, he was not sure… but that was later, _after_ he had asked for the… what had he asked for?

Of course! The Foxmasked Man told him he could have three things… so naturally, Cohradin had asked for three special spears to kill Sightblinder with, one each for he, Chassin and Gerom to use in the Final Dance. And the Fox-Chief had smiled, for Cohradin had not specified the _size_ of these spears. Cohradin paused his crawling a moment and gazed down at the three finger-spears laying in his palm for a moment, miniature weapons made of some dark metal, perhaps with tiny writing on them… his pounding head momentarily forgotten. An insult, to give him these! For a moment he considered throwing them away, but stuffed them into his belt pouch instead.

Tricksome Foxmen! Still, despite his aching skull and churning stomach, despite the fact that he would probably not be able to crawl back into the Shaido camp without Marindha or old Sadora noticing him, Cohradin smiled… because, unlike many a man of his Clan, he had gone to the Forbidden City of Rhuidean – and had _returned_.


	2. Roth and the Aielmen

_**Gleeman Bob writes: **this confused narrative sort of tells the taiel of how Roth Blucha, Gleeman, ended-up in the Aiel Waste when he didn't particularly want to end up in the Aiel Waste... amongst other things... it is actually three different pieces, two of which I wrote last summer but couldn't face editing until now, that I have then clumsily stitched-together and added links to! also, there is a bit with a goat in it... I have never written a goat character before... it is difficult, to get inside the goat's head... oh, and I KNOW how to pronounce 'Aiel' the title of these 'ty-eels' was supposed to be amusing! sigh..._

_enjoy! and..._

_Walk in the Light!_

* * *

><p><strong>Roth and the Aielmen<strong>

**Give me one good reason...**

The young man lay on his back in the lee of a dusty pile of boulders, the scant shade falling over his grimy face, his lips split and cracked as the bed of a dry river, of which the Three-fold Land had a great many. He was clothed in filthy rags and had lost one of his boots at some point. A small, leather scrip still lay where he had dropped it prior to collapsing. He had been wandering aimlessly through this dead wasteland that bordered the Blight for near two weeks, had run out of water after the first, only keeping himself alive by choking down stagnant dew that had collected in the hollows of rocks.

Things were damper to the north, though not in a good way. Recently, he had been forced to hide almost entirely submerged in a stinking mire whilst a large amount of what he presumed to be Trollocs (he had never seen one before, but did not think that they were Ogier, which he had also never seen) had dashed past, seemingly excited about something… they had appeared to be chasing after a pale fellow in a dark cloak, riding a big black horse… or had that really happened? He had been having all sorts of odd hallucinations in the past weeks... the big green giant who seemed to be made out of vines, for example... he had fled in terror when it shouted at him in its deep and booming voice. Also, his stomach felt as though it was sticking to his backbone.

The young man came temporarily to his senses and slowly blinked open his sand-encrusted eyes. It took him a few moments to realise that there was a one-eyed Aielman squatting easily just in front of him, wearing drab clothes that blended seamlessly into his surroundings. A villainous-looking fellow with a large scar across his face, smiling a twisted smile. A shorter Aielman stood to one side, his pale green eyes glaring, a much larger Aielman to the other, his sludgy grey eyes oddly placid. This was all that could be seen of their features… and then, the one-eyed Aielman pulled another of these black cloths up off his neck, wrapping it around the lower half of his face. The three Aielmen were holding short-hafted spears, looked as though they had been fighting recently, since they were spattered with dark stinking blood and had all taken flesh wounds, though did not seem overly concerned by them. The young man strained his memory... he seemed to recall that black-veil-wearing amongst the Aielmen, their women also, was perhaps a bad thing? Black veils were often mentioned in Aiel-themed stories… it meant something… not a good thing, most certainly a _bad_ thing... but what?

"Welcome to the Three-fold Land…" the one-eyed Aielman said with some irony, speaking in a clear, oddly-accented voice. He touched what felt like a razor-sharp spear-point lightly to the young man's throat. His black veil moved a little over his mouth, as though he had resumed that cold, twisted smile beneath. "It does not look as though you had a particularly pleasant journey to here, wetlander!"

The young wetlander moved his arms feebly and made a croaking noise.

"He must be from Shienar," growled the short, glaring Aielman, in a somewhat higher-pitched voice. "Kill him."

The young man frowned. _Little wretch!_

"He does not look like a Shienaran," mused the large Aielman, "for they are dark of eye and with the long black tails of hair that grow from the tops of their heads, whereas this fellow has green-hued eyes and brownish hair that flops down over them." The non-Shienaran wetlander found himself warming to the fellow… "But it might be best to kill him anyway," added the big Aiel chap slowly, "he has just walked out of the Blight, after all… things that walk out of the Blight should perhaps be killed." He nodded thoughtfully.

The young man scowled. _Great hulking ox!_

The one-eyed Aielman increased the pressure of the spear-blade slightly, enough to draw a small trickle of blood that ran down into his ragged collar. "Give me a good enough reason to not kill you, and perhaps I will let you live," the Aielman suggested, softly.

"_Ihhn bhaahg!_"

"I do not understand you, wetlander. Chassin, give to him a drink of water."

"He should go back to the wetlands if he wishes water," the short Aielman grumbled, before producing a goatskin and squrting a grudging thimbleful of warm, brackish fluid into the young man's mouth, "I hear that there is plenty there."

The young man let the heavenly liquid swill about on his tongue a little, then swallowed. The sharp spear-point was still resting against his throat, so he managed to further cut himself in so-doing.

"Well, wetlander, one reason?"

"Look… in the… the bag…" The young man flopped a hand weakly toward the leather scrip that lay beside him. Then, his eyes rolled up into his head and for the time being, he spoke no more.

So, the Aielmen looked inside his bag. It proved to contain a harp-case (with a harp inside) as well as a flute-case (without a flute inside) and a ragged, oft-mended cloak with a multitude of brightly-hued patches sewn cunningly onto it so that they would flutter in the wind. They examined these items, then eyed each other for a moment, before shrugging and lowering their black veils.

* * *

><p>"Oh," said one-eyed Cohradin of the <em>Sovin Nai<em>, holding up what was clearly the 'cloak' of a Gleeman, "well… I suppose that is alright, then. Good reason, Gleeman!" But the young Gleeman appeared to be out-cold again, or perhaps he had died. Cohradin grinned, rising, and threw the many-patched cloak over his shoulders. He struck an elegant pose. "Look at me, Gerom and Chassin; I am Cohradin the Gleeman! Shall I sing for you, or tell to you a story?"

Gerom and Chassin found this quite diverting, nearly coming to blows over who would get to be the Gleeman next, and in the brief tug of war that ensued, they managed to rip the cloak a little, while a couple of the coloured patches fell off.

Cohradin took the cloak away from them. "We had best put the Gleeman's cloak back into the Gleeman's bag before we break it." Cohradin glanced down at the Gleeman. "He does not look well."

"We could take him back to Wet Sands," Chassin suggested.

"But we have not yet found the Dark One, Chassin!"

Gerom shook his head slowly back and forth. "I do not think that Leafblighter is to be found about these parts," he opined, "I hear that _Shayol Ghul_ is his Hold, in any case."

"No sign of the Dark One, just a great many Eyeless and Shadow-twisted," Chassin muttered. It was true. A dozen Knife Hands had come north to Hunt the Dark One. Now, they were all that was left.

Cohradin scowled. And then shrugged. Clearly, they were not going to find Sightblinder this time, doubtless he had heard that the _Sovin Nai_ were out looking for him again and had gone to hide himself in a deep hole somewhere in the Blight until such time as the Knife Hands discontinued their search. _Coward!_

"Very well. Though reluctant to depart, I shall return to Hunt the Dark One at another time, for I am a Hunter for the Dark One, as is a wetlander who seeks after the Horn of Valere." Cohradin grinned. "Besides, we may not have found Sightblinder on this occasion, but at least we found a Gleeman, and _I_ say that is _nearly_ as good!"

Chassin poked the Gleeman with the toe of his soft boot. The Gleeman stirred a little, muttering deliriously, before relapsing into his comatose state. "Do you think if we take him back to Wet Sands the Gleeman will sing for us tonight?" he enquired, hopefully.

Gerom shook his head doubtfully. "I do not think that he will be able to tell us tales tonight… or to play his harp and sing." It was true, the Gleeman really did _not_ look well.

"Then we shall nurse the Gleeman back to his health!" Cohradin exclaimed.

"How does one nurse a Gleeman back to his health, Cohradin?" Chassin wanted to know, sounding genuinely interested in how this might be accomplished.

"_I_ do not know, my brother! All I know is how to kill things, not how to _nurse_ them... I only meant that we should give him over to old Sadora's charge!"

Gerom winced. "Our Wise One will not thank us if we bring her a half-dead Gleeman… she will already be angry enough about the other thing…"

"We could search his pockets and see if he has any tabac," Chassin suggested, "that might make Sadora more…" His brow furrowed and he glanced at Gerom.

"Amenable," rumbled Gerom. "Though it will not."

Cohradin shook his head firmly. "I have already thought of that," he declared, "and I have made a war-plan. Here is what we will do. We shall leave the Gleeman outside of old Sadora's roof, then I will make a noise like the howling desert-fox and run away. When our Wise One comes out to investigate the sound, she will see the-"

"The desert-fox does not howl," protested Chassin, "it makes a yipping, yapping noise!"

"Make this noise, Chassin. Show to me what you mean."

"_Yip-yip. Yap_."

Gerom pursed his lips. "That sounds more like the spotted jackal of the waterless sands. The desert fox is more a '_yiiip-yaaap_' manner of noise."

"_Uhhh-whhhuuuhhhh!_"

"No Cohradin, that is more the cry of the Sharan sand-wolf…"

* * *

><p>Roth Blucha, Gleeman, slowly blinked his crusty eyes open again. The Aielmen were still there, he had <em>not<em> imagined them, and now they were impersonating animals. Clearly, the heat had driven them all mad. Old Willi had always warned him that the Waste was only for the tougher sort of Gleeman – his Master had been there himself a few times, collecting ancient, forgotten stories and drinking far too much, which he could just as well have done anywhere else. And often did.

"Could I please… have some… more water?" Roth croaked. But the Aielmen did not seem to have heard him, they had ceased making the peculiar animal noises and were now, by the sounds of it, resuming an argument about something else... so the young Gleeman quietly lost consciousness again.

* * *

><p>"So we go back to Wet Sands and tell them that the others were all waked from the Dream by the minions of Sightblinder... <em>and<em> his worm-pet... what is so difficult about that?" Cohradin shrugged.

Gerom and Chassin sighed at the same time, a surprisingly similar sound given their physical disparity. Though a small, sparsely-populated Hold, every other Warrior Society of Wet Sands boasted at least a score of _algai'd'siswai_, but the _Sovin Nai_ rarely numbered more than a dozen. Which had now been reduced to three. There was a good reason for this, and that reason's name was _Cohradin_.

"Sadora will not be pleased," Gerom pointed-out.

"Old Sadora is never _pleased_ about _anything!_" snapped Cohradin. Least of all anything that involved _him_, it went without saying...

"She _told_ you to not take the Knife Hands north to hunt the Dark One again," Gerom continued, doggedly.

"Does she decide? Are we Wise Ones? Is old Sadora _Sovin Nai_ now?"

Chassin scowled. "No, Sadora is _Sadora_ – and she has a big stick and can still run fast!"

Cohradin nodded thoughtfully, then dismissed this troubling image with his customary blind optimism. "Well, in any case, let us go and leave the fellow outside of old Sadora's roof and see what happens next," he suggested, "we shall wrap his patched-cloak about him first... perhaps the glad sight of a Gleeman will make her forget about the other thing…" This was unlikely. Sadora's recollection of everything that had ever happened in Wet Sands Hold was horribly accurate.

"Gerom, pick up the Gleeman, Chassin take the van. Let us return to Wet Sands…" As his near-brothers set out, Cohradin turned his single, cold blue eye on the stinking, steaming Blight that lay further north. "I will find you _next_ time, Sightblinder," he warned the Dark One grimly, "and I shall slay you!"

Cohradin turned and followed the others past the pile of dead Shadow-twisted and their still-twitching Eyeless. It was time to go home.

* * *

><p><strong>Brief Introduction<strong>

_(a modest note from the silver pen of golden-tongued Roth Blucha, Gleeman)_

I shall never forget the time I first encountered Moiraine Sedai (although I knew her as 'Mistress Alys' then.) I was stood in the corner of some low and filthy tavern, attempting to amuse the toughs by juggling several inflated pig-bladders, my brand-new cloak bereft of all but the few colourful patches that mark out a lowly Journeyman Gleeman just starting-out in his noble calling. Though not near so low as my miserable patch-less years as a pathetic Apprentice to Old Willi, Master Gleeman, a fine man whom I was much honoured (for the first _two_ years of my Gleeman's indenture, at least) to stand 'prentice to. A wonderful, excellent, generous, open-hearted chap was Old Willi, though fat, and a drunk. Ah, _dear _Willi! A fantastic fellow, a marvellous man, if a little rough around the edges… happy days… excepting those which were _not_ so happy, of course… that affair with the black dog, for example...

I _distinctly_ recall telling Old Willi that following odd dog-tracks through the woods at night, paw-prints that only seemed to appear upon _stones_, whilst sniffing a fearsome, fiery odour redolent of the armpits of _Shai'tan_, was _no_ fit behaviour for a Master Gleeman and his handsome-yet-talented 'prentice to engage in. But of course, after playing far too many songs for the rustics as he usually did, Old Willi had been drinking heavily, as was his wont… whilst I demandingly-yet-righteously collected the coppers from the yokels (no silver around these parts, clearly) Old Willi had staggered outside to answer nature's insistent call… and whilst relieving himself against the side of the young Lady Ellythia's carriage, had glimpsed a large, black dog skulking about suspiciously.

That was the exact adjective he used, by the way; 'large.' Bloody old fool… drunkenly forcing us to both go in search of the black beast, as though it might provide the material for a tale or a song, rather than large and painful bite marks upon my unblemished skin… oh, and on _his_ as well, I suppose, though Old Willi's skin was very far from unblemished. Apart from all the other ravages of his misspent life, some sort of horrid bug had laid an egg in my Master's rump whilst he was sojourning in the Aiel Waste and… well, I won't go into details. It was unpleasant to have to share Inn bedrooms (as well as stables, tents and bushes) with that man for the interminable three years of my apprenticeship… and yet, _without_ those humble years I would not be, as I am now, that noblest and finest of all things, a Gleeman.

Besides, in spite of everything, I should not have chosen another Master Gleeman out of that entire pack of fat old men with too much facial hair from whom to learn my trade. There is no other Master of Gleemanry with which to favourably compare dear Old Willi. Even Thom Merrilin himself (though skinny and moustached only) for I have never considered him to be a proper Master Gleeman any more than he has troubled to claim the title that is rightly his. Thom (who cannot stand me, but then, few other Gleemen can, for we are a talented-yet-envious Guild amongst ourselves) is not really a proper member of our fraternity, in that he used to be a Court Bard and I have always considered him to be rather 'slumming it' as a Gleeman, for all that he is able enough at the trade and professes to enjoy it also. But Thom Merrilin was cut out for something else in life, I think… he is different than the rest of us. Why, he probably even enjoyed helping his mother with chores when he was a boy. No proper Gleeman has ever done that!

Though I will say this for Thom (whom I do not like either, so you know that what I am about to say is true, however grudgingly admitted...) well, I heard the Court Bard Thomdril Merrilin play in the Royal Palace of Caemlyn once, back when I was still just a mere 'prentice… since Old Willi and I were but lowly Gleefolk, we were not exactly _supposed_ to be inside the Palace, but that was where Thom was playing, and Old Willi resolutely insisted on attending the performance, whether by fair means or foul. Foul, as it turned out. It took me simply _ages_ to climb over that bloody garden wall, for I kept running out of breath part-way up and falling, and having to start over again. I shall not mention the terrible scrapes and painful bruises I suffered because of my accursed Master's intractability!

And then, because the old fool (bless him!) was of course too fat to climb the wall himself, I had to dash behind a rose bush and swiftly slip into the Guardsman's uniform he had obtained via bribery and knowing people who knew people, popping the helmet that the rolled-up garb had been stuffed into upon my handsome head... I then marched rather convincingly around to a side-gate, where I let Old Willi in through the postern. He had already changed into _his_ Guardsman's uniform, a sword girt at his obese hip, another in his hand which he promptly passed to me. He wore a slightly _nicer_ uniform than mine, I noted with irritation, marked with decorations of greater rank, I presumed... how he found one that _fit_ I have no idea, but then, as I have stated, Old Willi _knew_ people… _criminal_ people… shocking, I know, but a Gleeman is sometimes required to keep low company, and cutpurses and thieves enjoy a song and a tale as much as do the horny-handed sons of the soil who comprise the bulk of our audience… though when they do _not_ enjoy, in place of hurling rotten turnips, they tend to stab you.

Old Willi marched through the postern (barely wide enough for his ample girth) and I marched up and closed the gate firmly and then we turned and saluted each other in a very soldierly way before proceeding to march down a long hallway lined with Sea Folk vases. So far so good, all going according to plan. Though I could not help but notice that the lions embroidered on _his_ uniform were somewhat finer than those on mine, if still poorly-stitched, and was about to angrily point this out to my Master, when from behind us a cold voice demanded to know who we were.

It was a severe-looking Guards Officer staring at us with disdain and my heart sunk into my boots, for I had not even wished to hear this dratted Court Bard play, for I have as low an opinion of Bards as does any honest Gleeman. And all of the dishonest Gleemen hate them too. Instead of this doubtful pleasure, it seemed that we were to spend the night in the Palace dungeons listening only to the squeaking of rats and the bickering of each other, until the sun rose and they no-doubt accused us of being Cairheinin spies and executed us.

Though I speak as a Falman does (the only _correct_ way to speak) Old Willi's crude accents would undoubtedly proclaim that he was _from_ Caemlyn… he would therefore be accounted a traitor to boot... so hopefully, they would chop some _other_ bits of him off first, prior to the main decapitation, and I would be permitted to watch with righteous satisfaction before my own swifter and more merciful demise. Serve him right for nipping my talent in the bud with the last in a long succession of stupid and dangerous ideas. I might have my handsome head lopped-off, the fate of an accused agent for foreign powers posing in a uniform to which he had no right, but at least Old Willi would hopefully be befooted and behanded before his beheading, for he was worse far than a mere spy, he was a betrayer!

"Well? Who are you?" The Guards Officer had one of those perpetually suspicious voices that seem to be the province of the minor functionaries of Regal Imperiousness. "I've not seen you two in the Palace before... you don't even _look_ like proper armsmen!" And no wonder, for we were not, we were proper Gleemen, as Thom Merrilin is not.

I was preparing to sell my life as dearly as I could, buying time for my beloved Master to get away… well, to be perfectly honest, I was strongly considering pushing Old Willi toward the horrid Officer fellow and perhaps making a nimble leap for the window, though the Guardsman looked fast so would probably have skewered me through the spine whilst I attempted my escape. All seemed lost – but I had forgot (foolish, faithless me!) that I was in the company of a Master Gleeman. One does not become a Master of Gleemanry on looks alone, fortunately for Old Willi. He could outwit mere Officers of the Royal Guard in his sleep.

"We are no proper armsmen," Old Willi stated, voice sounding slurred. And oddly soldierly.

"What are you, then?" the Officer demanded.

"What do we look like? We're disguised bloody Gleemen, sir!" It was the 'sir' that clinched it. Suddenly, despite his general demeanour of Gleemanry, Old Willi sounded _just_ like a bloody soldier, sir!

The Guards Officer scowled. Well, he had already been scowling, but at this, he scowled _more_. "What's your name, you old fool?" he snapped.

"Sergeant Bil, late of the... the Aringing… Aringilling… of the burning _Aringil_ garrison! What's _yours_, sir?"

Only a _soldier_ is drunkenly rude and insolent to his superior, but still says 'sir' afterwards! And Old Willi swayed a bit, his faded cornflower eyes rather glassy, though just for once, he had _not_ been drinking heavily all evening. He was a masterful man when it came to subterfuge... the Officer had wondered who we were; we did not fit. Now, from certain indications he had been looking for, he knew, or thought he knew, that we were a couple of new arrivals from Aringil who did not know where we were as we had never seen the Palace before and in addition, one or both of us was drunk, having doubtless just returned from a tavern we were not supposed to have been at. Now, we fit! The Officer's military duty in this event was clear... to issue an official reprimand, and then to insult and bully us!

"You're on report, Sergeant Bil! You _both_ are! _Light!_ Every time we're sent the dregs from Aringil, they get _worse_... you two are a new low, however! Lose some weight, fat-man... and _you_… get yourself a bloody haircut!"

This last was directed at _me_, for all that I stood blameless of soldierly fault... I self-consciously touched the golden-brown curls that peeked attractively from 'neath the rim of my uncomfortable helmet. But it got worse!

The Officer sneered, issuing his final slur before departing.

"You've got hair as long as a girl's, you skinny drink-of-water! You look more like a _Bard_ than the fellow who's playing his harp in the Ballroom tonight, who by the way is a burning sight more of a soldier than you two bloody jesters will ever be!"

The swine! Had I been able to free my sword from the scabbard-thing in time (there was a silly strap in the way that prevented it from coming out, why in the Pit would idiotic soldiers have a stupid bloody strap there so that they could not get their swords out in time?) and though I was not, had I but been permitted to unsheathe my shining blade before the vile dog who called me 'Bard' to my face had marched more than two paces away, then I should have boldly and courageously run my sword straight through his back! But he was out of stabbing-range by the time I managed to break the strap with my fingernails and besides, Old Willi prevented me from giving chase, though he did not wish to, for whilst I was violently angered by the offensive term the lemon-faced Guards Officer had used in deriding my fine maple locks (he probably barely had any hair at all under that helmet, I know disguised jealousy when I hear it and of course, I hear it often) Old Willi was greatly angered also, by being called 'jester.' As any sane Gleeman would be.

But the loathsome Officer had at least marched off on his rounds and left us in peace, we had presumably escaped imprisonment and execution for the time being, so we marched swiftly in the other direction before he came to the realisation that we could not possible be members of the Royal Guard of Andor... for no self-respecting army would hire a man of Old Willi's enormous corpulence, unless they needed something to block a gap in the curtain wall during a siege, and of course, my unscarred, pleasingly-proportioned face, though sadly hidden behind the grim steel bars of my unflattering helmet, was far too handsome to be that of a coarse and rough military man.

Recollecting the skilful effrontery of his subterfuge, I looked on Old Willi with awe and he nodded graciously, and fluttered his soldiers cloak a little, as though it were a proper cloak, with patches upon it. The man was a genius! He could have talked his way into the Heart of the Stone of Tear, taken a turn at drawing the sword Callandor, and then talked his way out again. He always _claimed_ to have done that, at least, though was probably lying. And of course, in stating our identities as disguised Gleemen, which we _were_, his story had the ring of truth to it. One should always tell _some_ truth when one lies.

So, we marched into the main Ballroom of the Royal Palace, unhindered by further challenges, the opulent chamber aswarm with the nobility of Andor and many another place, servants also, and a great deal of fellows in red coats and helmets, standing guard. Old Willi and I promptly took up positions to either side of a door, and pretended to stand guard also.

And then, as my Master had promised I would, I heard Thom Merrilin play. And at one point, though the bars on my purloined helmet hid it from others I am glad to say, I wept a little. I wept… at the music… of a Bard. But Thom was not your typical Bard, any more than he was a proper Gleeman later in life, and not _much_ later as that was the last time he ever played for the Queen and her Court. Some trouble with his nephew, I heard... there is still a warrant out for him in Caemlyn, I do believe. Well, Thom might not be a proper Gleeman, anymore than Old Willi and I were proper soldiers, but that did not matter, for he was certainly a proper Bard. Compared with the rest of them, perhaps the _only_ one!

For my part, I had thought I knew of song and story-telling up until the very day I first met Old Willi, down at the bottom of that dark salt-mine near Baerlon... and then, having helped him to the surface and after giving him what little coin I had, some tabac also, I proudly stood as his 'prentice... and several days later, when my tuition finally began, swiftly realised that I had known nothing. Nothing at all.

Ah, Old Willi! A fine fellow, though uncultured and uncivilised. Such times we had! Bloody good job the growling monstrous black dog in the clearing had an ear for music. Its eyes shone with a silvery light and it looked at us hungrily as we nodded wordlessly to each other and promptly pulled out our instrument cases. My Master had told me that the black beast he glimpsed, the mysterious hound he sought, was the size of a dog... he had certainly _not_ mentioned that it was the size of a horse, which was odd, for he usually exaggerated enormously. I had fully expected the accursed thing to be the size of a rabbit.

In any case, Old Willi plucked his golden harp and I tooted my silvery flute, _all bloody night_, and when the sun began to rise, the dratted creature ceased its whining, howling accompaniment (though I have been forced to endure the unpleasant singing of Bards who sounded as bad) and finally left us in peace. Though I wish that it had not sniffed me in that particular place quite so insistently before it did. _Nor_ licked my face in that rather odious way, its breath stinking of some other part of _Shai'tan's_ anatomy. It seemed to quite like me, in any case. Perhaps the enormous great monster-dog was a _female_ of its species?

Dear me, I do go on, and this was supposed to be a _short_ preface to the scribbled ravings of a friend of mine, a likable fellow (if savage and reckless) a surprisingly pleasant Aielman (except for when he is not) named Cohradin, a member of the Shando tribe or sept or whatever it is that they call it... I forget...

In the course of my brief sojourn amongst the Aiel (which shall end the very moment I can walk unaided without benefit of stick) I have learnt much indeed of their strange ways. And their ferocious-yet-curvaceous spear-women can be surprisingly forward at times! Two of them began punching and kicking each other last night, to settle the issue of who's blankets I should later share... it seemed I was not to be consulted in the matter, but a gentleman should not question a lady's prerogative to make his decisions for him! He does so at his peril, certainly. Well, it caused quite a stir in any event... flattering indeed, to be fought over by hair-pulling, fingernail-scratching warrior-women...

But of course, there are few of the fairer sex not blind nor deaf, who do not favour the charming-yet-sophisticated Gleeman with a warm smile at the very least… and who can blame them? They are helpless in the face of my great charisma and musical genius, the poor things! Though perhaps I am starting to sound as though I am my _own_ greatest admirer… well, I _am_ I suppose, and who can blame _me_ either? As you are doubtless well-aware, Roth Blucha, Gleeman, has veritable legions of admirers from the Aryth Ocean to the Spine of the World (and beyond!) from the Sea of Storms to the Blight Border, and even into the Blight itself on one occasion (though I fear I have but few admirers there, perhaps none at all, unless this is where that enormous black dog lives, though I have not seen her again and am glad of it.)

Yes, you heard correctly. Roth Blucha has done what no other Gleeman has dared – he has visited the Great Blight, had a bold adventure, and lived to tell of it. Though it was something of a nightmare for one of my ascetic sensibilities. How did it happen? Ask a certain puffed-up little popinjay of the minor-nobility wearing absurdly extravagant clothing… for it was all _his_ fault! I was riding with the stunted Lord Wakime as secretary and (though I hesitate to use the word) _Bard_, when his aimless and confusing perambulations took us north of the Shienaran border towards what had once been the nation of Malkar or Malkwer or some such… _why?_ Well, his plan was to find and slay a _worm!_ I know it sounds ridiculous, but there it is, that is Borderlanders for you, and judging by the dwarvish Lord Wakime, Saldaeans are the strangest of the lot. His Lordship's intent was to locate this inoffensive worm and fight a battle with it! He wished to duel the worm whilst I observed, and subsequently composed a song telling of his great feat of courage...

The Blight is a very warm and sticky place, by the way, most odd, weather rather like the Aiel Waste though of course, much damper. Lord Wakime became quite snappish whilst we journeyed through the worst bits, I recall... he kept telling me to stop playing my flute, and gave repeated instructions that I should not _touch_ anything! As if I was planning to take my sensitive fingers that have drawn sweet and soulful music from many a grateful harp string, and run them lovingly over a slimy tree that was _growling_ at me? The man _was_ a fool if the Worm (it turned out to be a Worm, by the way, and not a worm) caught him, and the man _is_ a fool if it did not. Though I hope that it did. When I gave a fair and even-handed account of what happened with the whole going-to-the-Blight-to-slay-a-worm-and-write-a-song-about-it incident to my new Aiel friends, they all agreed with me that Lord Wakime _did_ sound very foolish, as well as extremely small and ugly, so there are three more opinions, if you wish to question mine. But of course, you do not.

After Lord Wakime abandoned me to my doom, I walked many a mile in what I presumed to be a southerly direction, since the sun was rising right before me. I continued in this fashion for several days, trotting steadily toward the dawning southern sun each morn, but still no sign of Fal Dara. Fortunately, the trees became gradually less slimy and offensive until I found myself in an odd, rocky land that was much hotter, and seemed to contain many a large and delicious-looking lizard, though my attempts to hunt these irritating creatures proved sadly inadequate. By this point, I was down to my last biscuit and had not drunk any water for three days. Though by lucky hap, I have never had a large appetite… whereas I cannot exactly say the same for he whom I stood 'prentice to...

When yet a loathly and miserable Apprentice Gleeman, I was once with my Master at an Inn in some out-of-the-way little flyspeck in the westernmost part of the landor of Andor (ha-ha! excuse me, but I _always_ call it that) where my disbelieving eyes stood witness in respect and horror whilst Old Willi slowly devoured an entire roasted pig in one sitting, in the course of an afternoon and part of an evening. My Master was a gluttonous fellow, but for him even this was more than just a snack! It was not a 'pig' as such, of course, more of a pigling... though no mere piglet! A gargantuan meal for one man... but Old Willi was no ordinary man, remember – _he_ was a Master Gleeman!

My Master did it because another Gleeman had said that he could not, a conceited and opinionated fellow, an Arafelin of our worthy Guild by the name of Jaret Smyke. Well, this witless Smyke abruptly issued his bizarre challenge after we had been drinking convivially together for most of the morning... and Old Willi met it nobly! It proved an impressive feat indeed, though I rather cheated by swiftly and skilfully swallowing pieces of the pig whole, each time the Gleeman Smyke glanced away from the table, for I did not believe that Old Willi could accomplish it alone and if but bones were left, the loud-mouthed fellow would owe to us both much coin, and in addition, a fine silver flute that I rather had my eye on. Well, Old Willi triumphed, the pig (now a skeletal pig, a pig in name only) eaten whole, but for the ears, hooves and tail which were _not_ included in the wager.

_Fortunately_, for I fear Old Willi might have forced me to swallow these as well, snatching them from the platter and stuffing them into my mouth on every occasion that the preoccupied Gleeman Smyke looked out of the window... which he did often, gazing toward the village green where there were several rather pretty village lasses prancing around some kind of a wooden treeish thing, wrapping long ribbons about it… odd customs, these western Andorans… very pretty girls in that hamlet, by the by, though when I gave the flower to the slimmer-yet-gigglier of the two maids, the Innkeeper's wife kicked me rather hard in the shin and told me that she would have none of _that_ sort of thing going on beneath her roof, so I retreated meekly.

The Innkeeper, who also appeared to be the Mayor of whatever-it-was-called Field, a fine, decent, generous man (though stout and mostly bald as Innkeeps so often are) as well as all of the other cider-swilling yokels in their drab, tabac-stained woollens, applauded Old Willi's triumph with great enthusiasm (though their wives did not, confining themselves to tugging upon their long braids and looking disgusted) and I (who had eaten part of the pig also, though but a tenth part in comparison to Old Willi's impressive feat of swine-stuffing) felt perfectly entitled to rise and bow on his behalf (borrowing his tent-sized cloak and fluttering the numerous patches on it with an enthusiasm equal to the applause, since I had no patches on my own bereft and sad 'prentices cloak.)

Old Willi could not bow himself (though he had difficulty doing so usually, in any case, due to his considerable girth) since after his battle with the pig, my Master could not move nor speak nor blink his eyes even, and had to remain wedged into the corner of the common room for the whole night before he could be lifted outside by several lusty stable-hands at dawn. They managed Old Willi's great bulk well enough, though their faces did go a little red at one point and I was forced to cease shouting instructions and pitch-in when it came time to push Old Willi up onto the huge, powerful cart-horse that he was accustomed to riding.

After we had tied the enormously fat Master Gleeman securely into place upon his capacious saddle, utilising many a length of stout twine in so-doing, I performed a little for the helpful stable-lads. If a Gleeman is extended a service by one of his countless admirers, he should always repay that service with a few simple jests and tricks (though never coin, obviously, so as not to offend his helper.)

Subsequent to reciting some of my shorter and ruder poems to the grinning, woollen-headed lads (which they seemed to enjoy) I then enacted some crude sleight-of-hand for their further amusement. After I had pulled long silken scarves out of all of their ears and noses, I proceeded to cough-up several gold coins (not literally, of course, I was still far too full of indigestible pig chunks swallowed whole to have managed to conceal any money in there) taking each shining coin from my mouth and slipping it into a pocket before coughing-up another. It was, of course, the same coin each time. In fact, I… that is to say _we_ (if Old Willi survived the pig) had but one gold coin to my name… _our_ name… since the foolish Gleeman Smyke, who so rashly challenged us, had grudgingly paid his debt of honour with silver alone. The flute proved to be rather shrill and off-key, by the way, so I gave it back to him.

The wool-heads appeared to enjoy the gold coin as much as the scarves, though it was very difficult to understand what they were saying since they spoke as though they had their mouths stuffed full of nettles. I smiled with agreeable condescension and permitted them to admire me a few moments more, before I mounted my own ancient, yellow, wheezing steed... my Master and I then took our leave of Hammond's Meadow, or whatever it was the dull place was named...

But I fear that I may have digressed somewhat with my impromptu Tale of the Great Swine-Stuffing. This enervating story shall be told in full at another time, as I appear to be running out of paper... I cannot write on the backs of these few, reluctantly supplied pages, as I have already utilised _that_ side in telling the Tale of the Famous Siege of Wet Sands Hold... ah, Old Willi, pigging the pig! Such times we had... such larks... but alas, the life of a Gleeman is not _always_ so glamorous…

...for some years later, when our hero, a full Journeyman Gleeman by this point, out on his own at last, let loose into a grateful World ready and willing to hand over its hard-earned coppers in recompense for entertaining yarns and sweet songs... well, by this, our hero has been treacherously suborned into Worm-hunting and song-writing about Worm-hunting by a gnomish Saldaean Lord wearing ridiculous loud clothing, has seen his horse and the Lord's both, devoured by a frightful purple wormish beast that seems to regard them as some form of delectable dessert…

Well, in any event, I found myself stranded far from civilisation and its many comforts in this brave, new, unspeakably _hot_ land that lies somewhere to the north of Shienar, I presume, since my weeks of walking steadily south toward the rising sun (though come to think of it, does not the sun rise in the _west?_ I have always been a poor orienteer...) had not revealed the Borderlands. Had we really ridden _that_ far north to the Great Blight? I did not recall, I was not paying much attention until we rode past those tower things, too busy waving and singing to the peasant girls out in the fields… pretty creatures... we were not stopping 'til we reached the Blight, but perhaps I might encounter them again on the way back? I did not, however.

Ah, the Blight... where if the bestial Trollocs did but attend to the strains of my golden harp and goldener voice, they might cease their ferocious activities and weep with joy… though a fine idea in principle, it did not serve at all well in practice, for the horned and hoofed monstrosities which chased me after my abandonment by that odious Saldaean pygmy did not seem to care overmuch for my music... so I tucked my harp away, turned and continued to flee.

Those horrid Shadowspawny creatures ran fast indeed, and sounded famished, but no-one sprints so swiftly (nor so gracefully) as Roth Blucha, Gleeman, when death and partial-cannibalism dog his heels. Fortunate that when my stamina soon gave-out (as I knew it soon would) I was able to sink myself within a vile, stinking mire full of dead faces staring at me and muttering uncomplimentary things… fortunate indeed, that I could conceal myself thus, rather than providing a no-doubt delightful repast for the ravening Trollocs… doubly fortunate that I could hide my talent beneath the bushel of a foul and noisome swamp full of snide ghost-heads... even though my fine apparel (my favourite burnt-umber brushed velvet coat, its buttons of best opal, my silken _Atha'an Miere_ pantaloons dyed deepest maroon, the chartreuse satin cloak with my own handsome features embroidered on the back in silver thread) was all completely and utterly ruined, reduced to the merest slimy rags… yes, most fortunate... I would suppose…

But I seem to have strayed from my original topic, so... back to the inflated pig's-bladders! The Lady Moiraine Damodred, Aes Sedai (or Mistress Alys, as I then knew her) was _most_ kind to me, on that occasion when first I performed alone in public, though the rough and scarred wagon-guards who thronged that low, dirty Four Kings Inn were not, rudely booing the juggling and demanding that I play my harp, even though I had already explained to them that I did not yet possess so fine an instrument, whilst my much-regretted flute had been stolen by the sprightly wench with whom I had shared a haystack the previous night. But 'Mistress Alys' was graciousness personified and favoured me with both a silver mark and a faint smile of commiseration (though her 'Horse-Master' who answered to the ridiculous name of 'Andra' and later became unduly angered by my repeatedly neglecting to use this absurd pseudonym in public, certainly did not turn anything resembling a smile upon me, for Lord Mandragoran is clearly a man of sober disposition who does not appreciate visual jests. _Or_ Gleemen.) Anyway, later on that night

* * *

><p><strong>wasted paper...<strong>

When Cohradin returned to the library, having removed the offending goat and hoping Gerom would not notice that the leather binding of one of his older and more prized volumes had been chewed a bit, he saw that the foolish Gleeman was still hunched over the writing-desk, scribbling busily... and had used up _all_ of the sheets of paper that they had whined and begged from Gerom! He was only supposed to have used _one!_ Cohradin angrily riffled through the pages of florid scribble. Roth Blucha ceased his writing mid-sentence and set aside the quill, yawning expansively behind a long-fingered hand.

"What _is_ this nonsense, Gleeman?" Cohradin demanded hotly, "you write of large dogs and a wetland palace... of pig-stuffing, whatever _that_ is... _and_ other silly things..." Cohradin glared again at the first page "...you also falsely claim that you write with a pen of silver when you use but a quill, the plume of the wetland 'goose'-"

"Poetic license!"

"You have scrawled this ridiculous drivel on _all_ of the hard-won paper! You were only supposed to scribe a brief introduction, the preface for an account of _my_ adventures!"

The Gleeman looked up, blinking foolishly whilst brushing his absurd floppy hair out of his eyes. "Yes, I was, wasn't I... sorry Cohradin, I just got a bit carried-away with my _own_ reminiscences."

Cohradin was not appeased. "You were to tell the tale of how I boldly went to Forbidden Shara (as did Jain Farstrider) and saw the Head-Belly men! The whispering snakes, up in their odd, glowing tree! The enormous flapping vulture-creature that flew by, gripping a struggling, grey, long-nosed animal in its claws!" His tones became less enthusiastic. "Though _not_ the other things I saw, the nightmarish things from that terrible day when I lost my eye... the small, furry, bobbing, purple monsters that attacked from the bushes..." Cohradin shuddered "...and the great yellow beast-bird... chasing me, upon its long, orange legs..."

The Gleeman raised his eyes to the ceiling, sounding exasperated. "_Really_, Cohradin, you have told me all about _that_, and it is quite clear that the small, bitter-tasting and pointed mushrooms which you unwisely ate that morning are to blame!"

"They are? How do you know this, Roth Blucha, Gleeman?"

"Certain plants when ingested can have a very strange effect! Can make you see and hear all sorts of odd things that aren't there! You mentioned the 'special cactus' you ate at your initiation, when you became a Night-Hand?"

"_Knife_-Hand!"

"Whatever it was... why, I was once given a _very_ peculiar piece of fungus by a peddler, who claimed it had magickal properties... a _most_ unusual night, I do not really recall all that much of it, apart from the singing mice of course, though I fervently wish that I did not... I awoke at dawn upon the _roof_ of the Inn, wearing only my Gleeman's cloak... dreadfully embarrassing, they had to fetch a ladder to bring me down – how did I even get up there in the first place? did I fly? – _and_ every peasant in the village came out to _watch_, they were all laughing and pointing... oh, I suppose I could write about _that_, there is a little room left at the bottom of this very last page..."

"What of _my_ story, Gleeman?" Cohradin reiterated, dangerously.

"Well, could we not borrow some more paper from Gerom?"

"No! For all that he is my near-brother, he did not even wish to give me the few pages that you have squandered, with your foolish talk of inflated bladders and worm-hunting! Gerom will give to us no more paper!"

"But he has reams of it, locked away in that cupboard over there, boxes and boxes full of the stuff..."

"Gerom uses it for making additional copies of his rarer books, he is very parsimonious with it otherwise."

"An Aiel savage with his own printing-press! Who would have thought it?"

Cohradin scowled darkly. "There is that 'savage' word again, Gleeman, I do not think that I care for this word!"

"Oops! Sorry..."

Cohradin frowned whilst gathering the pages of scribble. "I suppose that you might record my adventures in Shara on the _other_ side..." he flipped the paper over – more scribble! "Ak! No! you have written on _that_ side as well! You have used up near all of the meagre amount of ink Gerom let me have, in addition! What is _this?_ 'The Famous Siege of...' "

* * *

><p><strong>The Famous Siege of Wet Sands Hold<strong>

...which is now a lot closer to the Great Blight than it was back in the days when the last Shaido Hold bravely held-out when all of the other northern Holds fell, long ago in the time when the Shadow-wrought foolishly came south to the Dying Ground. There was a huge wall of dead Trollocs taller than a Treebrother right the way around the Hold and by the third year of the siege, it had begun to smell very bad… the final stocks of food had run-out… it looked like the end was nigh… everybody's belly was clinging to their backbone… the end was _definitely_ near… clearly, there was but one thing that the heroic defenders of this sole surviving yet slowly starving Hold could possibly do in so serious a situation...

So, the Clan Chief of the mighty Shaido, scion of the noble Wet Sands Sept, had been forced to send out hunting-parties of Maidens of the Spear to capture lone Shadow-twisted scouts. The Maidens gagged the Trollocs so that they could not grunt for help (they usually tried to choose the ones who looked more like pigs than men, though; 'is there a _difference_, Spearsisters?' – 'ha-ha-ha!') and they then brought them back to the Hold to be roasted in the cook-pit.

It was of course disgusting, to consume the Shadow-wrought, but there had been nothing else left to eat by then, except for the ill-tasting hairy spiders that lived down in the caves, as well as each other, and though there had been lots of volunteers, cannibalism was an even more disgusting thing to do. Sort of… they tried not to eat _too_ many Trollocs that had _hands_, anyway… Disgusting indeed, yet under the circumstances, clearly... Honourable. If you cannot beat your enemy, eat your enemy. An eaten foe is an inherently beaten foe…

The Maidens had done their best to choose the Trolloc scouts that were the _most_ animally and didn't have proper feet (it had to be _them_ because no-one wanted to try eating an Eyeless except for old Zagora, the scary and ancient Wise One of Wet Sands Hold, a not-so-distant ancestor of the current Wise One, Sadora, who behaved a lot like her, only much worse.) The plan to start devouring the enemy had worked out surprisingly well. There were even some Shaido who wished to continue the practice later on, when they had eaten all of the Trollocs in the area… but Zagora the Wise One said _no_, they should only eat the one-hundred thousands of Shadow-twisted that were currently besieging them and then not eat any more Trollocs ever again. Zagora was _always_ ruining people's fun.

Of course, the Trolloc meat was a bit tough and rancid, a little like lizard… but had not tasted _that _bad, really, especially the flesh of the ones that looked like pigs or goats. The wolfish ones tasted _nasty_, like old, leathery dog-meat, but they were still not so bad as the Draghkar, which had been full of bones that got stuck between your teeth. And it had tasted a bit like a snake that had been dead for a while, though still not quite so bad as did the large, inoffensive spiders that lived in the caves beneath the Hold... no-one wanted to have to eat one of _them_.

Except for Zagora the Wise One, who actually _liked_ the taste of the spiders and was always sending her unlucky apprentice down there to pick up some nice juicy ones to make soup with. One spoonful of Zagora's infamous spicy-spider soup was enough to make you not want to eat ever again. Zagora _was_ awful, she would eat _anything_, though even she had only taken _one_ bite of her roast leg-of-Myrddraal, having decided to cook the Eyeless she had earlier caught sneaking around down in the caves (trying to steal _her_ soup ingredients! the fool!) before spitting it out and declaring that it clearly was not edible. Besides, one's food should not still be _moving!_ (Unless you were eating a nice fat _motai_ that you had found under a stone, they tasted better when they were still squirming.)

Old Zagora was always telling the other Shaido, usually whilst striking them with her stick (unless they were the Clan Chief who was one of the only two people in the entire Three-fold Land whom she seemed to _like_, the other being the visiting wetlander who used a dishonourable sword, yet at least had a lute and a pleasant voice) shouting that they had no idea what it had been like when _she_ was a girl (back in the Age of Legends, presumably) and that the year every goat in Wet Sands died of the goat-cough, coughing themselves slowly to death (an unpleasant sound that had kept them all awake) there had been little snake or lizard meat available, so the whole Sept had to live on the horrid spider-flesh for several weeks, until fresh goats could be borrowed and not returned from the fools to the south. It was difficult to pay attention to this sort of thing whilst being hit with a stick, but they got the message – they thought life was tough now? Just because they were surrounded by a hundred thousand Trollocs and had to eat a few vile-tasting spiders? Hah! Soft fools!

Of course, in addition to the Clan Chief and the Sword-Bard, old Zagora _never_ hit one of the other Wise Ones with her stick. She always used a long leather strap instead, and did it in private. And then made them eat some of her spider soup. She had already been Wise-Oneing for a hundred years before any of _them_ had stopped suckling at their mother's breast, as she was often loudly reminding them. The other Wise Ones _behaved_ themselves around old Zagora, if no-one else... except for the Clan Chief, who they were a little in awe of, as in addition to his many other feats of honour, he had once dealt with a dangerous male Channeller in a very clever way...

The Madman had caused a lot of trouble when he first began to make rocks explode by staring at them, and of course, he had been sent north to Kill the Dark One by his Clan (the tricksome Taardad, naturally, who _else _would cause the Shaido such trouble, except for their blanket-friends the stinking Shaarad?) He had also exploded the Taardad Clan Chief's favourite goat, which had been the last straw that broke the mysterious Sharan hump-creature's back. Unfortunately, instead of walking straight toward _Shayol Ghul_ as you were supposed to when you started channelling, the Madman had obviously gone a bit strange somewhere in the Blight, lost his bearings and ended up stumbling back down south into Shaido lands, destroying everything that moved and much which did not. The Madman had destroyed a hurriedly-emptied Hold and killed several _algai'd'siswai _and a young Wise One (who had at least managed to wound him, though not fatally) by the time he was waked by the Clan Chief. (As well as exploding several fine goats, which _really_ made the Shaido angry.)

The Madman was found standing beside a water-hole that no-one wanted to take their goats to while he was standing beside it, staring in bemusement at the blackened stump where his hand used to be. The Clan Chief told his attending Knife Hands to stay where they were and not follow, or he would kill them before the Madman could. Then, leaving his spears and knife behind, he crawled slowly toward the dangerously insane male Channeller.

The Madman noticed his approach eventually and raised a hand to destroy him, but the Clan Chief called out to him in a friendly way, saying; 'do you like stories, Taardad? I heard a good one the other day – it was very funny!'

The Madman hesitated. So, the Clan Chief stood up and began to tell the story. And the Madman listened. He really should not have trusted a smiling Shaido, but the Clan Chief had wit and was good at telling tales. Whilst smiling reassuringly. And slowly moving closer, one small, sneaking step at a time. Focusing vaguely on what was happening with the clever Spider who was trying to outwit the grumpy old Lizard who had put him into a box and was carrying him home to make soup out of him, the Madman did not notice how close the Shaido had sneaked toward him, until the very moment that the Clan Chief's left hand (his _knife_-hand) took him rather nastily in the throat.

And the coveted water-hole was now free to use again! Swarms of Shaido immediately appeared, driving their precious goats down toward the small brown puddle whilst the Clan Chief scrubbed his knife-hand clean with some sand, ignoring the dead Madman who lay sprawled beside him. The other _Sovin Nai_ came running up, beating their spears against their bucklers. They asked the Clan Chief what they should do with the troublesome-yet-dead Taardad? Let the goats eat him? It seemed only fair. The Clan Chief thought about it for a moment, then grinned his rather alarming grin. He picked out a dozen of his younger Knife Hands who were good sneakers and told them to wrap the Madman up in a blanket and take a little trip south. But first, he had a letter to write. Fetch pen and paper, _algai'd'siswai_ of Wet Sands!

A week later, the Taardad Clan Chief was somewhat surprised to discover the ripe corpse of a dead Madman lying atop the roof of his Roof, with a wax-sealed message pinned to the front of his filthy, ragged _cadin'sor_. The letter, which his Wise One who was also his wife told him was definitely in the Shaido Clan Chief's handwriting, was sly and short, rather like the man who had written it. It read;

_A Shaido Madman walks north to kill the Dark One… clearly, a Taardad Madman believes that Shayol Ghul lies somewhere to the south of the Blight… but they have always been very stupid, these Taardad Madmen. I hope that I will see you at Alcair Dal next year, Rhuidean-Brother, and also your lovely wives, whose names I cannot recall. The Shaido thank you greatly for the gift of the fine goats, my friend._

_Mighty Sasaradin of the Sovin Nai – his mark_

The Taardad had been returned a troublesome Madman whom they had not wished to see again, even though waked from the Madman-dream, and those who delivered the message had taken several of the Clan Chief's best and liveliest goats with them when they sneaked back to sneaking Shaido land... the sneaking Shaido goat-thieves!

But back to the siege. When they realised that the Spear-Demons in the Hold that would not give-up had begun to hunt and eat them, the surrounding horde of Trollocs became very angry and attacked in force, before the Myrddraal could even start whipping them with their whips, which was most unusual… Wet Sands Hold might have fallen then and there if the other Clans had not _finally_ shown-up, a full year after they should have, because no-one down south had realised that Wet Sands had not fallen along with all of the other northern Holds… they had been completely forgotten about!

After the other Clans arrived and helped to kill all of the besieging Shadow-wrought, there was a fair amount of rudeness flung back and forth between the Shaido and the fools to the south, which went along the lines of; 'other Clans being late is dishonourable' and 'Shaido cooking and eating Shadow-twisted is disgusting' and that was officially where the Trolloc Wars in the Three-fold Land ended as far as a Shaido is concerned, though all of the other Clans insist that the Big Dance with the Shadow ended a full year _before_ that date, but no-one can remember what that exact date was anymore, anyway, not even Sadora the Wise One.

This great victory of the Light also meant that the Sword-Bard, Anselan Maconar, who had spent the entirety of the siege violently helping his _Sovin Nai_ brothers to defend Wet Sands Hold, could finally go home to Aramaelle, or what was left of it. He could have gone much earlier, for even though his horse had been eaten after the last goat was waked from the goat-dream, getting past the siege-lines would not have been difficult for him. He had already been very good at moving silently and unseen when still back in the Borderlands and his sneaking Shaido hosts had taught him additional skills of sneakery.

But Anselan flatly refused to leave the Hold that had offered him water and shade until the siege had been lifted. It was exactly because of this sort of honourable behaviour that the Clan Chief and the other _Sovin Nai_ had carried Anselan up to the highest crag of Wet Sands and told him that he _had_ to join their Warrior Society, or they would kill him! They would throw him off the precipice and throw his lute and his dishonourable sword down after him! Well, did he want to be a Knife Hand or not? He had been offered a clear choice, after all...

Anselan just shrugged and said that he would think about it. Clearly, he was _Sovin Nai_ material! The long and painful initiation ceremony had begun there and then, the Clan Chief producing the special cactus whilst a young Knife Hand was sent to fetch the emergency _oosquai_ which old Zagora had not yet been able to find and destroy (she did not approve of _oosquai_-drinking, or much else either apart from the Clan Chief... as well as Anselan and his tuneful singing, of course) because the flasks had been cunningly buried deep in the damp sand at the bottom of the caves, where Zagora did not go, for she misliked the sensation of hairy spiders crawling all over her, for some reason…

After the minor injuries associated with becoming a Knife Hand had healed, Anselan learned the secret sign language quickly, as well as how to punch his hand through a Myrddraal's rib-cage and tear out its heart, and then said he had to go back to Aramaelle to see if his mother and brother were still alive. This was an honourable reason for Anselan to finally depart Wet Sands, no Shaido could possibly object to the Sword-Bard returning to his own Hold and kin… but the Maidens of the Spear (who were as much enamoured of the young wetlander as old Zagora, if not more so) did not agree... and so they hit Anselan over the head with a rock and tied him up and kept him hidden down in the spider-caves for days whilst they made bridal-wreaths and fought each other with their fists and feet to decide who was going to break her spears and throw her wreath at Anselan's bound feet.

Eventually Zagora the Wise One shouted down to them from a safe distance (she didn't want to go too near the spiders) that they couldn't keep the Sword-Bard and had to let him go home. The Maidens of the Spear were very angry about this, angry with _Anselan_ for some reason, they were going to force him to eat some spiders since everyone knew he didn't like the way they tasted (which was understandable) but it was too late, some stupid _Sovin Nai_ had sneaked up the back way while Zagora was distracting them and had released the handsome young wetlander! The Knife Hands and the Sword-Bard then ran away from the Maidens, laughing loudly, dodging many a rock and the occasional arrow – _just_ like foolish little boys who did not get their own way... _Men!_

The next morning, Anselan said his goodbyes, strumming his lute and singing old Zagora's favourite melancholy ballad to her. He hugged the ancient Wise One (who was snivelling and feeling emotional for the first time in nearly three hundreds of years) and then told the Clan Chief and his other knife-brothers that he wanted to go back to the wetlands because he missed the _food_. They found that amusing.

Anselan took a different route back to the wetlands than the one he had repeatedly told everyone he would be taking in a loud voice and sure enough, after he had set out, some young Knife Hands caught up to him with the news that there were several _Far Dareis Mai_ who had defied old Zagora waiting to ambush him along the southern route. They had made a large net out of their climbing-ropes and there were several different kinds of bridal-wreath for him to choose from... they had also brought a box of spiders from the caves to threaten Anselan with, should he seem inclined to step upon their wreaths instead of seizing one up with a glad cry. So, Anselan carefully avoided that whole area and took the more dangerous route home that skirted the Blight. And, as far as the Aiel were concerned, the Sword-Bard of Aramaelle then became history that became legend that became myth.

The Sword-Bard was considered to have a fine sense of humour, unlike most wetlanders, who were weak and cowardly and had not yet managed to kill (and / or eat) all of _their_ Shadow-twisted, even though they had been attempting to do so for near three hundred years, whereas the Aiel Clans had accomplished it in twenty, or twenty-one if you included those Trolloc-cooking Shaido up at Wet Sands, who everyone else had forgotten about…

Anselan had not eaten any Shadowspawn, though he had been sorely tempted at one point, when a particularly fat boar-Trolloc was being carried struggling to the cooking pit... but it would not have been proper behaviour for a son of House Maconar. Mother would doubtless disapprove if she heard that her youngest boy had been feasting upon thick, pink slices of roast Trolloc. Even so, it _had_ smelt nice…

Throughout the final days of the famous siege, Anselan had certainly not enjoyed having to hunt hairy spiders through the dark caves that riddled the ground beneath the Hold. There was sand down there, as well as the nests of many a meaty yet horrid-tasting spider, and occasionally it got quite damp with condensation, and if you were _really_ thirsty you could suck moisture from it, though you ended-up drinking quite a lot of sand also.

Which is why this most venerable and venerated Hold of the Shaido is called Wet Sands – an ancient and proud name, for it was here that the Trolloc Wars in the Three-fold Land ended, a year after they ended in the rest of the Dying Ground, since the other Clans thought that the Shaido were all dead and were quite pleased about it too, because of the future safety of their goats. There are many long-standing reasons why the Shaido do not get along with the other Clans, and this is only one of them.

Two millennia later, when Cohradin, Gerom and Chassin and the other boys played with their toy spears in the wasteland around the Hold whilst a straw-chief gravely looked-on, they would yet find shards of yellow Trolloc bone in the sand, and sometimes a rusty, cruelly-barbed weapon with which Cohradin would usually try to hit one of the other boys 'til old Sadora came to take it away and spank him.

* * *

><p><strong>more wasted paper...<strong>

"Curse you, Gleeman! What is this idiocy that you have scrivened on the backs of the pages? Since you seem disinclined to answer, I shall tell you – it is a lamentable waste of yet more paper! Also, I am only mentioned _once_, and that in a dishonourable context!" Cohradin snorted with ire and waved the paper about accusingly. "_Spanking?_"

The foolish Gleeman shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Gerom was telling me about the famous siege you had here, back during the Trolloc Wars, so I wrote some of it down... as well as what you were recounting about that heroic ancestor of yours, the one whose name sounds a bit like an interesting dance I once saw performed in Saldaea..." Roth Blucha smiled lewdly, his eyes glazing... then blinked, "oh, and there were these two young fellows with broken fingers hanging about in the library earlier, groaning... apparently they have to go and do some sort of bizarre _Sovin Nai_ initiation later on... and _then_ Chassin mentioned that there was once a wetlander who was actually made a Knife Hand, an enormous honour it would seem, so I wrote a few lines about that as well... I wonder if he was the _same_ Anselan who later took-up with Barashelle? It is not a very common name, after all... dear Old Willi was right, every story we think lost is still out there somewhere, yet being told by someone to somebody else..."

Roth Blucha stared into space, a small smile on his lips.

Cohradin was much disinclined to share in the Gleeman's pleasant musings. Gleemen were strange indeed! They did not seem to think that they existed in the same world as everyone else! Although Roth Blucha was the only Gleeman he had ever met, he had heard that all of the other Gleemen were equally odd, but had not been afforded the opportunity to confirm this observation for himself, as Gleemen did not oft visit Wet Sands... only old Sadora remembered the last time one had journeyed here... he was not sure why, for of all the Holds, Wet Sands Hold was clearly the best!

Cohradin shook his head, frowned and brandished the pages angrily. "But _this_ is not how it happened... these were events of great honour for my Clan, and yet you have described them in a flippant manner and have attempted to make it all sound droll whilst only rendering it foolisher!"

"Have not! It is a true account, based on factual evidence, speculation and heresay! You heroically hungry Shaidos at least ate the Trollocs, did you not?"

"Well, yes, my glorious ancestors did do that, of course... some of them... the ones that looked like goats, mostly... _though we do not like to speak of it!_"

"I'm not surprised! Yuck! Though I am sure that they tasted less horrible than some of the _other_ things you Aielmen eat..." Roth Blucha made a nauseous face and shuddered.

Cohradin would not be dissuaded or distracted. "You have only told yet even more falsehoods, Gleeman! As you did about the man-devouring Witch-Queen of Andor, I suspect." He scowled suspiciously.

"She _does_ eat men, I've seen her do it! And... well, I just wanted to spice it up a bit... make it more entertaining... I am a bloody Gleeman, not an Historian! If you want some dry and dusty account then... you should..." Roth Blucha trailed-off. "Cohradin?"

"_What?_"

"That wonky-horned pet goat of yours has come back... it is looking at us through the window..."

"Ak! Be-gone, accursed goat! Return to my roof lest I wake you and consume your flesh!"

"_Meeeaahh!_"

"It has a very odd bleat, for a goat..." Roth Blucha noted.

Cohradin sighed. "It is a very odd goat. It is not as other goats. And it is not my 'pet' Roth Blucha, you should not say this! I tolerate the irritating beast following me everywhere that I go simply because it is part of the spoils of my battle with that loud-mouthed Tomanelle whom I got into so much trouble for waking. In this way I illustrate to my enemies (who go whinging and whining to the Wise Ones whenever I do something that upsets them) that the goat which I bravely won in the Dance of the Spears is yet _my_ goat. But it is _not_ a pet! Only foolish wetlanders keep _pets_; dogs and cats and swines and..."

"_Mweeeeeaaahhh!_"

"You _cannot_ come in to here – you are not allowed inside of Gerom's library, you _know_ this! Go away! Shoo!"

Roth Blucha, Gleeman, rose unsteadily from the stool, favouring his left leg somewhat. "Well, the evening draws nigh and I suppose that I had better go and earn my keep, as a good Gleeman should. Curse this heat, I shall have to tune my poor harp again. Pass me my stick would you, Cohradin?"

Cohradin ceased scowling at his foolish goat, scowling upon the foolish Gleeman instead, whilst reaching him his foolish stick. "Here is your stick, Gleeman, for all that you are not even wounded and there is nothing remotely wrong with your leg..."

"I sprained my knee badly whilst running away from the Shadowspawn!"

"That was many days ago, and old Sadora nursed you back to your health with her savoury spider-soup-"

"Urgh! Do not _remind_ me!"

"You told her that you _liked_ it!"

"I _lied!_ Gleemen are _allowed_ to tell lies, actually – it is an important part of the story-telling process."

"Bah! You have no honour, Roth Blucha... _and_ _still_ you stagger about upon a stick like an ancient and decrepit Wise One! You look just like old Sa-" Cohradin ceased shouting abruptly, his grin disappearing rapidly from his scarred face, and went to peer cautiously out of the window, having to push his foolish goat out of the way to do so... old Sadora was _very_ quiet on her feet and not above eavesdropping...

"I have recently come through extremely trying times," the Gleeman stated in wounded tones, "why, I cannot recall the last time I ate four square meals a day... I have a delicate constitution, which my travails served only to weaken further, and-"

"Bah again! You are skinny and weedy, Gleeman, and cannot fight, for all that you eat like a wetland 'horse' afflicted with the gut-worms! It yet confuses me as to how you stay so gaunt and emaciated..."

"I boast a slender, lithe physique, actually! Various discerning females have said so over the years... and I suppose that I must also have a fast metabolism, like that of a shrew... no, I mean a... like a leopard."

"You are no leopard, wetlander – you would not last ten scant moments in the Dance of the Spears!"

"Well of course I would not! I am a bloody Gleeman, not a... spear-dancer! Whatever _that_ is..."

"This is no excuse." Cohradin looked the hobbling Gleeman up and down, curiously. "Do you not need to defend your person when back in the wetlands, from dishonourable wetlanders who do not care that the persons of Gleemen and peddlers are inviolate, unless they do something forbidden like trying to sneak into Rhuidean?"

"Well, yes... sometimes... it is a dangerous world, after all. I once had to hit a Whitecloak with a chair, before boldly escaping through the window... it seemed that I was in bed with his betrothed, or some such amusing misunderstanding... why, I have been in quite a few scrapes down the years and have acquitted myself with courage and honour, on those occasions when I did not flee."

Roth Blucha produced a slim poniard from the hidden sheath strapped to his leg and twirled it skilfully between his long fingers. "And I'll have you know I can be quite _dangerous_ when my back is to the wall, like a cornered rat! No, I mean a... like a cornered lion... well, in any case, I have not lived _this_ long by being 'weedy' as you so rudely put it, I- ow!"

"Pathetic, Gleeman. I see with but one eye and have been drinking _oosquai_ all afternoon yet was able to take your blade away from you without even really trying."

"You have hurt my fingers! You bent one of them right back! Oh, it smarts!"

"What will you do now, without your girlish knife? You could hit an enemy with your _harp_, I suppose..."

"I would _never_ do that! It's a bloody good harp, and they aren't easy to come by! Though I _have_ had call to bash obstreperous types with the _case_ a few times... now _give it back_ – that dagger was expensive! Stop holding it up in the air like that, you know I cannot jump so high, _especially_ with my game leg!"

"Tsk! You are poor at the Dance, Roth Blucha, even by wetlander standards! It amazes me how you survived the Blight."

"It amazes me also, I suppose that the Creator must quite _like_ me or something... now return my poniard and cease your taunting and bullying or I shall tell old Sadora on you!"

"Huh. _Here_. Tell-tale..."

"Savage!"

"Wise One's pet!"

"_Meeaahhh!_"


	3. Enaila and the Madmen

_**Gleeman Bob writes: **this story completes my humorous Aiel-themed tales with an account of how Roth Blucha, Gleeman, finally manages to leave the Three-fold Land far behind him. he never wanted to go there, it was not his fault. it was an accident! _

_Walk in the Light! _

* * *

><p><strong>Enaila and the Madmen<strong>

**The Voyage Home…**

"It is still following us, Cohradin."

"Ak! Begone, beast! I told you, you cannot come with us to the _stedding_, the Treebrothers will not permit goats, lest they chew upon their flower-beds!"

Roth Blucha, Gleeman, shook his head impatiently. "It doesn't matter that you _told _it that it could not come, it doesn't _understand _you!"

"Of course it does! It just pretends that it does not, to anger me!"

One-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ scowled furiously and drew the fletching back to his ear, aiming the keen point of his arrowhead squarely between the evil yellow eyes (with their oddly barred pupils) of his accursed goat. The disobedient animal just stared back at him for a long moment, daring him to do it. Cohradin's scowl diminished, and he lowered his horn bow, letting the string relax. His goat always stared him down when he threatened to kill it, it was very good at staring. But much as he wished to wake the irritating creature from the goat-dream, he could not. It was _his _goat now, it no longer belonged to that arrogant and loud-mouthed Tomanelle who had tried to stop him from milking it, and that was all there was to it.

"_Bweeehh!_" said the vile goat contemptuously, then turned and trotted away, back to his roof. Cohradin hoped that it would not make too much of a mess in there whilst he was away, but then, his roof was already rather messy anyway.

"Well, I suppose it got _that_ message," commented the foolish Gleeman, who had sat down on the skull-shaped boulder to rest his weary feet, even though they had walked but a hundred of spans from Wet Sands Hold! Again, Cohradin wondered if the Gleeman realised quite how far it was to Stedding Shangtai? This was the closest _stedding _to the Three-fold Land so they always went there for old Sadora's sung-wood, even though it necessitated travelling through the lands of the fools who lived to the south… though at least that afforded the opportunity for goat-borrowing on the way back, an honourable tithe of goats from the stinking Shaarad or tricksome Taardad or tell-tale Tomanelle. They were actually supposed to be called the 'troublesome' Tomanelle, but Cohradin always called them 'tell-tales' because they went whining to their Wise Ones just because he had waked some loud-mouth who had tried to stop him from milking that strange-looking, one-horned goat that he found in the back of the cave, and got him into lots of trouble…

Where was he? Oh yes, well, the fools to the south clearly owed goats to the Shaido since their noble Clan, whose lands lay closest to the Blight, kept them all safe from the minions of Sightblinder. And his worm pets. It angered Cohradin that with their better grazing lands, the goats of the fools to the south always looked fatter and healthier than the Shaido goats did… _his_ goat especially, which had been quite lively when it was still a Tomanelle goat, now it always looked very scrawny and withered as though it were about to die of the goat-cough, though it never did, unfortunately.

Cohradin noted that there was a large, black scorpion, its stinger raised, crawling with rapid determination toward the foolish Gleeman's ankle. Chassin thoughtfully stepped on it and Roth Blucha did not even notice his near brush with death. He was smiling and waving up at a rock-spire. Cohradin looked. Manda was up there, dangling from a rope, smiling and waving back.

"Farewell, handsome Gleeman!" the young Maiden of the Spear called, batting her eyelids.

"Goodbye, Magda!" the Gleeman cooed, fluttering his fingers girlishly.

Manda scowled. "It is _Manda_, you bloody idiot!" she shouted, "_how many times?_"

"Oops! Sorry!"

Cohradin grinned and lifted the partially-squished scorpion by the tail, waving it tauntingly. "Hoy, Maiden, I have an interest-gift for you!"

Manda's scowl darkened. Everyone knew that she did not like scorpions, for some strange reason that she was unwilling to discuss, even with her spear-sisters.

"Eat-it, you scar-faced pig!" was Manda's response to this visual jest, and she turned away from them with contempt and resumed her ascent. She was about two-hundred spans up the side of the rock-spire, with another three-hundred to go.

"In this heat?" said the Gleeman, "why in the waves does she do it?"

"Oh, Manda has always enjoyed to climb things," Gerom explained, whilst thoughtfully sliding the blade of his belt-knife into the skull of a puffer-lizard that had been about to bite the Gleeman's foot, "ever since she was a girl… and what does waving have to do with it, Roth Blucha? Is it because you were waving to Manda?"

"I did not mention waving…"

"Yes you did," Cohradin snapped, "you said 'why in the waves' did you not?" A large bloodsnake was preparing to sink its fangs into the Gleeman's calf so Cohradin stabbed it with his spear, though he did not wish to. He continued grumpily; "though it is difficult to understand what you are saying much of the time, Gleeman… and even when it is not, it would be preferable were you to remain silent."

"Huh! And I did not mean _those_ sorts of waves…" Roth Blucha waved at the Maiden again, who was now ignoring him, "I meant the other kind, the billowy things that move across the surface of the Aryth Ocean…" He raised his voice and sang;

"_oh, the Father of Storm's in a terrible mood, _

_and the waves they are rolling and roiling and rude_..."

Cohradin grinned. "Ocean! A pool of water that cannot be drunk even by goats, so big that you cannot see the other side… and it waves at you!"

"Well, that is not _exactly_ what I meant…"

* * *

><p>That night they camped at Rock River Stand, and after he had eaten his flatbread and cheese, Roth resisted the urge to roll himself into his blankets and instead took out his harp. A Gleeman should always be prepared to sing for his supper. It had been a long day's walk and his feet were killing him, so with this in mind he recited <em>The March from Bekkar<em> which was all about the army of Manetheren making their long way back from the Field of Blood to defend their homeland from the Trolloc hordes. It had a rather gloomy ending, so to lighten the mood, he decided to tell the tale of the Great Swine Stuffing.

Cohradin was sitting cross-legged on his blanket staring into space, Chassin was reclining with his hands behind his head and Gerom was fiddling with his pipe. The shadows cast by the flickering firelight picked out their stony, scarred features. What strange travelling companions he had found this time! But in order to escape from the Aiel Waste, he would need Aielmen to guide him, that much was clear. Quite apart from the dangers of getting lost again, this vile land seemed to contain more creeping, crawling, scuttling, poisonous creatures than the rest of the world put together. And there were lions here too, he had heard them snarling and roaring in the night. Roth had no desire to encounter a lion. Not on his own, at least.

"This tale takes place in an out-of-the-way part of what you refer to as the wetlands, called 'the Three Rivers' or some such… in a little hamlet that I think was named 'Lemon's Ford…' I was there with my Master, old Willi, a number of years ago. We went to entertain the rustics at some local festival of theirs, and ran into another Gleeman, a supercilious and arrogant fellow by the name of Jaret Smyke, who then issued a bizarre challenge…"

* * *

><p><strong>The Great Swine-Stuffing<strong>

"A _whole pig_, Master Gleeman?"

"Nay! A pigling – but no mere piglet, mark you! Roast one for me, good Innkeep, and be quick about it, for a wager is a wager and waits for no man!"

Roth sighed. This was surely not a good idea. Old Willi's gluttony was legendary amongst Gleemen, but he did not think that even his Master could accomplish _this_ feat. How had they come to this pass? It was Smyke's fault, for turning up his nose at his breakfast of spicy sausages, claiming that they were not a patch on the spicy sausages of Arafel, which contained more spice. And more sausage. Old Willi had eaten them for him, and called for more. And Jaret Smyke, Journeyman Gleeman, had seen fit to question the capacity of a Master Gleeman to devour a whole pig at one sitting, a most imprudent and insolent thing to do. Unfortunately, Old Willi had taken up the challenge. He rarely resisted a challenge… no, he _never_ resisted one. This had been the cause of much upset for Roth.

By the early afternoon the steaming pig was ready and a crowd of the locals had gathered to witness the feat of endurance, swigging from their wooden mugs of cider and filling the inn's common room with dense clouds of tabac smoke from their clay pipes. Roth doubted that so exciting a scene as three Gleemen – well, _two_, since he was _still_ but a lowly 'prentice despite having mastered the tricks of his trade long since – such excitement as two Gleemen then, engaged in a wager of honour, had ever been seen in their little flyspeck of a village. The rustics watched and cheered with approval as the pig, an apple in its mouth, was brought out on a large pewter platter by the rotund Innkeeper… well, at least the men cheered. Their wives seemed less approving, tugging on their long braids of hair and scowling with distaste. Roth couldn't for the life of him imagine why. It was impossible to understand women.

Old Willi set to. His rotund form was wedged securely behind the table, his watery blue eyes fixed on the smirking Smyke sitting opposite, like those of a master player of stones (which he also was) staring down his opponent. Pieces of the pig disappeared regularly beneath his huge white moustaches, his porcine jaws chewing methodically. There seemed to be no stopping him. Halfway through, Smyke's smile began to slip. Roth allowed a small smile to appear on his own lips. Should Old Willi accomplish the monstrous feat, then Smyke would owe to them much coin, as well as a silver-chased flute that Roth rather admired.

The men of Melon's Field (or whatever the dull place was called) watched, aghast. Doubtless they were unused to the august company of Gleemen, but it was more than that – so impressive a feat of gluttony must never have been witnessed by them! The women kept sniffing, and muttering to each other. Roth's smile widened.

Three quarters of the pig gone and Old Willi showed no signs of slowing. If anything, he seemed to have speeded up! Smyke glanced away, out of the window, where on the village green outside there were some pretty lasses dancing about a pole, twining it with ribbons. He eyed them, lasciviously. And Roth nearly gagged as abruptly a piece of roast pork was shoved into his mouth! He managed to swallow it whole and regain his composure, just as Smyke looked back. Old Willi continued to eat, imperturbable, as though he were not quite obviously cheating. No-one in the common room gave the game away, they were on Old Willi's side. At least the men were, the women had all left by this point, making loud noises of disgust as they did so. Again Smyke looked away, clearly bored by the spectacle, and somewhat enamoured of the winsome village girls outside the window. And again, Old Willi took the opportunity to thrust another piece of pig into Roth's mouth. He managed to force it down just in time. The eating continued. As did the cheating.

Finally, there were just bones left. _And_ the apple, which was fortunately not included in the wager. Scowling, Smyke was forced to pay up, whilst the village men cheered uproariously, acclaiming Old Willi for his feat of gluttony. They might have hoisted him on their shoulders in triumph, but even had this not proved to be an almost certain impossibility, the ceiling was too low.

Roth counted the coins carefully, gave the silver-chased flute a rub with the edge of his sad and patch-less cloak, then eyed his Master with concern. Old Willi did not look well. His face, usually red and jolly where it was not hidden by white whiskers, was now so suffused with blood as to appear unto a beetroot. His faded, cornflower-blue eyes were glassy and protruded somewhat. After his gargantuan feat of swine-stuffing, he did not appear to be capable of speech, let alone movement. So they left him where he was for the time being, while Roth borrowed his tent-like cloak, swept it over the shoulders and exuberantly fluttered the multitude of colourful patches that decorated it, basking in the applause of the villagers. Smyke went outside in a huff, no doubt to better view the dancing wenches.

And there Old Willi stayed all night, wedged behind the table in a comatose state, it being considered impossible to roll him upstairs to his room. In the morning they were due to ride to the next village, down in the south, where there were fireworks to deliver. Getting Old Willi up onto his horse (an enormous, powerful beast, long accustomed to his weight) proved to be something of an ordeal, but it was accomplished in the end, his still-comatose form tied securely in place. They set out.

A little girl watched them go. The day before, she had been tagging along with the village Wisdom when the objectionable old lady had told Roth off for presenting a flower plucked from his sleeve to a local lass. She scowled darkly, and shook a small fist at them both.

"Pigs!" she shouted.

* * *

><p>"An entire pig!" Cohradin exclaimed enthusiastically, "your Master, the old, fat Gleeman, earned much <em>ji <em>with this impressive feat!"

"He did indeed," Roth agreed smugly, though he was not entirely sure what 'ji' was. It sounded like a good thing, though. "And I did too, for helping."

Gerom was frowning, his large brows beetled. "But did not the wager state that the old man _alone_ should devour the pig?" he enquired.

Chassin proved that he had not gone to sleep by nodding in agreement. "It was not honourable of you to eat parts of the swine also, Roth Blucha."

"I had no choice!" Roth protested, "he kept stuffing bits of pork into my mouth whenever Smyke wasn't looking!" He smoothed his voice and adopted lecturing tones. "As his apprentice, I was honour-bound to obey Old Willi in all things. To have spat out the pieces of pig onto the floor would have been dishonourable in the extreme. And that Smyke… you wouldn't want to dice with him, let me tell you! It isn't cheating, to cheat a cheat!"

"When I was young, I heard tell of a fat Gleeman who guested amongst the tricksome Taardad," Cohradin mused. "It is said that he devoured an entire goat in one sitting… well, a goatling, but no mere goatlet! Could it be that they were one and the same?" He mused further. "When we return to Wet Sands, perhaps I shall attempt this feat with my own goat, and dispose of the wretched creature once and for all? I could earn much _ji_ also, with such a display of eating prowess!"

"You will never eat your goat," said Gerom.

"Though mayhap your goat will eat _you_," added Chassin.

Roth wondered why the Aielmen were laughing. They had a very odd sense of humour, he considered. A very odd _everything_, for that matter.

* * *

><p><strong>Goat<strong>

The next morning, Cohradin was nowhere to be seen. Chassin tracked his footsteps to the edge of the valley. They led unerringly toward Tomanelle lands.

"He has gone to steal a goat," said Gerom, and sighed.

"Why?" Roth wanted to know.

"He was inspired by your story, Roth Blucha, doubtless he wishes to emulate the feat of the old Master Gleeman you served, and devour an entire goat."

"But… that's stupid!"

"No, that is _Cohradin_."

With Chassin leading the way, they continued to follow in Cohradin's footsteps as the day wore on. Roth found it hard going, his feet inside the soft boots he had been given were sore and the others refused to let him have more than a sip at a time from the waterskins, which they carried, not trusting him to not spill any.

As the sun began to sink, they reached a low rift where a dry river bed descended between two towering rock spires. There was a camp-fire down there, with three people sitting around it. Two men wearing the _cadin'sor_, and a girl, wearing nothing. The men rose at their approach and Roth flinched a bit, sensing trouble. Gerom and Chassin did not seem perturbed, however. They approached at a steady pace, Roth lagging behind.

"Look, Gerom, two troublesome Tomanelle."

"Yes, Chassin, and the cut of their _cadin'sor_ tells me that they are of the Bent Spines sept."

"And even worse, that they are foolish Red Shields."

"Yes, I mislike them also, they oft ruin an _algai'd'siswai's_ fun."

"Well, my brother, do you want to do it, or shall I?"

"Whose turn is it?"

"Yours?"

Roth was confused. "What are you talking about? Turn?"

"Whose turn it is to wake them, of course."

"They are only Red Shields, so it would not be fair for _both_ of us to dance the spears with them."

"But do you have to fight them? What reason is there for it?"

"They have noticed us now, and will soon begin their insults." Chassin scowled.

"That will be reason enough," agreed Gerom, "it always has been before."

The taller of the two Tomanelle raised a hand in greeting. To Roth.

"I see you, Gleeman! After we have waked these sneaking Shaido you are with, perhaps you will accompany us back to Bent Spines Hold and sing for us?"

"Um…" Roth was unsure where his loyalties lay.

This angered Chassin considerably. "He is _our_ Gleeman! Find your own!"

"Silence, boy!"

"Who are you calling boy?"

"I am sorry, it is just that standing next to the other sneaking Shaido goat-thief, you looked as though you must be a child!"

The other Tomanelle nodded. "It is true, you are so short we thought you a mere boy, out looking for his herd of stolen goats, Shaido sneak!"

They had continued walking throughout this exchange and were quite close to the Tomanelle now. The nude girl kneeling by the fire watched with disinterest. She had flame-coloured hair and was quite small. The Tomanelle raised their spears.

"Catapult," Chassin muttered, reaching for his belt-knives. Unlike most Aiel, he always wore two, Roth had noticed. Gerom stuck out his hands, fingers laced together and Chassin hopped neatly up so that his soft boot came down on them. Gerom hurled him high into the air. The Tomanelle had a brief glimpse of a short, angry Aielmen descending on them, the setting sun at his back blinding their eyes. The knives slashed viciously to either side.

Chassin rolled neatly to a stop in front of the kneeling girl and regarded her with interest. Behind him, the two Tomanelle clutched briefly at the red line weeping blood that each of them now had adorning his throat, before collapsing.

Gerom paced over, Roth trailing behind him.

"Stand up, girl!" Chassin told the maiden, as he got to his feet. Scowling, she did so. He chortled, clapping his hands together. "See Gerom? I finally have a _Gai'shain _who is shorter than me!"

The girl continued to scowl at him. "I am not short." Then, she nodded at Gerom. "And I am _his_ _Gai'shain_,not yours!"

Chassin protested. "But I slew those who took you _Gai'shain _so I am-"

"You slew but _he _threw! You were but the weapon cast by his arm… can I be _Gai'shain _to a spear? Though it is not well, to throw your spear."

"Do not tell me of spears, girl, how long have you even been a Maiden? How long since you ceased suckling at your mother's breast? I am no spear!"

Gerom frowned. "She makes a fair point, Chassin… according to the strictest interpretation of _ji'e'toh_, you were but a _siswai'Gerom _in this matter."

"Curses, Gerom! You always speak the Old Tongue because you know it confuses me! She is _my_ _Gai'shain_!"

"I am not!"

"Silence, _Gai'shain_!"

Roth had been staring in fascination at the dead men until they stopped twitching, though none of the Aiel paid them any attention. _Bloodthirsty savages!_

But now, he decided to do the gentlemanly thing.

"How can you two stand here arguing over the custodianship of this poor captive maiden whilst she herself stands flagrantly exposed to the harsh sun?" Roth chided them, smiling winningly at the girl as he slipped his patched-cloak thoughtfully over her bare shoulders, though her flagrant exposure caught some of his own attention as well as that of the fierce fiery ball that, as ever, burned down on the Aiel Waste. Her reaction to his gentlemanliness was not much to speak of…

"You shame me, Gleeman!" She tore off the cloak and hurled it into the fire.

Roth screamed like a woman and leapt to rescue his beloved patched-cloak from the guttering flames, singeing himself a little in so doing. He stamped out the smouldering patches, sucking his fingers. The Aiel watched him curiously.

A while after sunset, Cohradin returned. He was leading a nervous-looking goat on a rope, and seemed pleased with himself.

"What is that, Cohradin?" asked Roth.

"It is a goat, Gleeman."

"Why have you brought it here?"

"So that you can sing to it." Cohradin snorted. "It is for _eating_, of course!"

The goat bleated mournfully.

* * *

><p>In the pale light of dawn they set out again, the bodies of the two Tomanelle and the bones of the goat left behind at their campsite.<p>

The palest and thinnest of the blankets had been modified into a _Gai'shain_ robe by Gerom, whose long experience of binding his own books had made him skilful with a needle and thread, but the short girl kept tripping on the overlong hem even so. Her name was Enaila, apparently. She and some of her spear-sisters had gone north to hunt Trollocs along the Great Blight, but only she had returned. Her luck had not improved, straying into Tomanelle lands she had been captured and made _Gai'shain _by the Red Shields Chassin had slain. This was all the information she had been prepared to volunteer to them, while they ate their goat the previous night. Roth was giving Enaila a wide berth, she clearly had something of a temper and besides, he was still angry about her trying to burn his beloved cloak. A few of the colourful patches now bore sooty scorch marks… he would rather she take a rock to his harp than attempt to destroy the beloved symbol of his illustrious office again!

Cohradin was holding his stomach as they walked and occasionally groaning softly to himself. He had eaten a gargantuan amount of roasted goat the previous night, though not the whole thing, for all that he had tried. Chassin led the way, his sharp eyes alert for any tracks that might betoken an enemy nearby, for in the south, which meant anywhere below the Shaido lands, _everyone_ was their enemy. It was Gerom who noticed the dust cloud first, though.

The big Aiel was in the position of rear-guard, Enaila beside him; she stopped walking when he did. Gerom pointed back behind them. "We are being followed."

Cohradin immediately crept to the top of a nearby rise, Roth following. In the distance, beneath a swirl of dust kicked up by their feet, he beheld a line of tall Aielmen, advancing rapidly in their direction. They were all veiled.

"Who are they?" Roth wondered, shading his eyes against the fierce glare.

Cohradin snarled and grabbed Roth by the cloak, hauling him down to lie on the ground next to him. "Keep low lest they see you, foolish Gleeman!"

"But who-"

"They are Tomanelle. I believe that they are out looking for their goat. And for whoever waked those Red Shields, but mainly they are concerned for the goat, I would imagine. They seek retribution, Gleeman! But do not fear, they will not slay you, your person is sacrosanct, Roth Blucha…"

"I'm glad to hear it! What will you do, Cohradin?"

"We will await them and dance the spears with them of course. What else is there for us to do?"

"That's stupid, they'll kill you!"

"Well, do you have any better ideas? We cannot outdistance them with your soft feet dragging at the ground… you cannot run more than a few paltry steps without feeling faint as a woman on her birthing bed! You are pathetic, Gleeman."

"I shall pretend I did not hear that. And as a matter of fact I _do_ have a better idea. Tell the others to come up here."

Cohradin regarded him suspiciously, but waved for the rest of their small party to join them, Chassin carefully covering their tracks. And Roth dug to the bottom of his leathern scrip, beneath his harp case, to find his most treasured possession. It was wrapped in a lady's silk scarf – _which _lady he could not quite remember, anymore than he could recall why she gave him the scarf – and proved to be a small, round pipe, made of a dark, stony material, like obsidian. Ancient, faded letters were carved into it which, though Roth could read the Old Tongue, he had never been able to decipher. It was his most precious item. It had saved his life on several occasions, most recently, up in the Blight.

"Everyone stay close to me and keep perfectly still!" Roth told the Aiel, then put the flat mouthpiece in his mouth, held his finger over one of the holes and blew a single, shrill note. As far as they were aware, nothing happened. They regarded Roth expectantly.

"Are you going to play more on your pipe, Gleeman?" enquired Chassin.

"No! That should do it… now, don't make a sound, I am trying to leave the Aiel Waste as soon as possible, I have no desire to go to this Burnt Spines Hold with the other… that is to say, with the savages, after they have killed you all!"

"It is 'Bent' Spines," Cohradin muttered, watching the approaching Tomanelle, a hand cupped over his single eye. They approached rapidly and soon came into view below, running with an easy rhythm, their spear-blades flashing in the sun… and kept going, moving right past the low rise where they crouched, as though they were not there. They disappeared into the distance, the dust cloud raised by their running feet marking their progress.

Cohradin was confused. "Why did they not see us, Gleeman?"

Gerom nodded. "It is as though we were hidden from their gaze."

Roth grinned. "We were!" He rose and moved a little away from the Aiel and to their eyes he just seemed to vanish. They could hear his disembodied voice and see a flickering in the arid air as he moved. "It is this old pipe of mine. It's a _ter'angreal_, though I don't suppose you know what that is. It bends light or something like that."

Gerom nodded again, thoughtfully. "A device of the One Power. I see. How came you by it, Roth Blucha?"

"Now _that _is a long story."

* * *

><p><strong>How Roth found his Pipe<strong>

"And so, much against my will, I was dragged off into the night-time woods by my Master, in pursuit of the large black dog he had seen mysteriously sniffing around the back of the Inn. Why in the waves he wished to pursue the beast into the trees was beyond me, though his motivation for doing such things often was, and by the time we reached the clearing I was more than ready to give up and return to my warm bed in the hayloft (the Inn being too full to provide a bed to an honest Gleeman) but lo, there it was! Standing at bay beneath a large oak, watching us with its eerie, silver-eyed gaze – a dog the size of a bloody cart-horse! 'Large' Old Willi had said, not _enormous_. And he was usually much given to exaggeration. As the monstrous black beast approached, a deep, rumbling growl in its throat, my Master and I exchanged a quick glance, the same thought in our minds – to run? No! Of course not, that would have been cowardly. And we would never have got more than a few steps before it dragged us down, I do believe. No, we met the threat as Gleemen do!

"Pulling out our instruments and nodding to each other, we immediately launched into a two-part refrain, the_ Ballad of Donitius and Alandra_, a soothing melody designed to still the savage breast of the beast. It seemed to work. The enormous black dog paused before us, cocking an ear, then began to whine and howl in accompaniment, clearly approving of our playing. Well, it did not eat us, at least. When the song came to an end we straight-away began another, before the massive dog could find time to regret its decision and commence taking monster-sized bites out of our innocent persons. And so it went, Old Willi strummed his golden harp and I tooted my silvery flute, _all bloody night_, while the fell creature joined in on the high notes. We could do little else… but what an ordeal! Even the harshest audience of ale-sodden roughs pales in comparison to a monstrous dog that will surely eat you if it does not approve of the music!

"Eventually the dawn came, and with the rising sun, the great black dog turned and took its leave, leaping away through the trees in great bounds. It left no tracks. Old Willi and I breathed a heart-felt sigh of relief. It was then that we noticed the body. A victim of the dog, he lay beneath the oak, his throat cruelly torn out. He was a pale fellow wearing an odd coat made up of brightly-hued diagonals, a little like a Gleeman's cloak, in truth, and very shiny boots. In an attempt to know more of this victim of the cruel hound, we went through his pockets, but found only a round, black pipe of a curious design, arcane lettering writ upon the side. At this point I realised that I badly needed to empty my bladder, having been denied the opportunity by that accursed dog, so went behind the oak tree. I heard Old Willi blow a shrill note upon the pipe as I did so… and when I emerged, he had disappeared!

" 'Where are you?' I cried, in fear that my Master had been spirited away by the same evil forces that had summoned the dog to do its dark deeds. 'I'm right here, you're looking straight at me,' responded Old Willi's irritated voice, 'what in the Wheel is wrong with you this time?!' The air seemed to move and shimmer somehow, and then my Master was there, standing before me, looking disgruntled. I took the pipe from him and moved some distance away, and it was _his_ turn to show signs of amaze and disconcertment. Through careful trial and error, we determined that the pipe, when blown, rendered everything in its immediate vicinity invisible for a set amount of time, depending on which hole you covered with your finger, and which note was produced. Old Willi kept the pipe for the next couple of years, then eventually gave it to me, on the day that he – equally eventually – decided I was finally fit to call myself Gleeman and sew patches upon my cloak. Then, he retired."

* * *

><p><strong>Dogs<strong>

Roth nodded, and set his harp aside – he had been strumming the occasional soft chord as he told the tale – and the Aiel sitting around the camp fire blinked at him. They weren't a bad audience (he preferred them to monstrous black dogs, certainly) but he was never quite sure how they were going to take one of his stories. And this one had the virtue – unlike most of his tales – of being completely true!

"Nonsense!" growled Cohradin, "more of your absurd falsehoods, Gleeman! As if one of Leafblighter's curs would let you live simply because you played to it upon your foolish harp-"

"It was the _flute_, Old Willi had the _harp_ and he would never let me touch it either, the dreadful old drunkard, though my fingers were much more agile than his-"

"Bah!" bahed Cohradin.

Gerom considered thoughtfully. "I did once read a very old account of a pack of _Far Shai'tan Shae'en_ who were lured into an ambush by the strains of an Age of Legends instrument referred to as a '_shama_' whatever that may be…"

Chassin frowned. "Far Shai'tan _what_?"

"_Shae'en_. It means 'dogs' in the Old Tongue. As in the Stone Dogs, of course. _Shae'en M'taal_."

"Oh, I always thought it was the '_M'taal_' part that referred to dogs."

"No, Chassin, that means 'stone.' "

"I am not particularly tall, but I am also not stupid, Gerom! But why do you not just _say_ dogs, my brother? Darkdogs! Shadowhounds! Why must you always speak Old Tongue words that we do not understand?" Chassin griped. Doggedly.

"Yes!" Cohradin barked, turning away from the smirking Gleeman with ill-disguised contempt, "it is irritating! Why do you do it?"

Gerom smiled one of his rare smiles. "Why, my brothers, I occasionally speak the Old Tongue to remind you both that I am more intelligent than you, of course!"

Cohradin and Chassin chuckled dutifully, since Gerom was their near-brother as well as being more book-learned than they, and since he did not attempt to make jokes very often they felt that it was only right to encourage him, even though it was but a poor jest. Roth Blucha chuckled in a more genuine fashion whilst young Enaila, unsurprisingly, continued to scowl at them all. The Gleeman seemed to find some of the things Gerom said amusing, though… perhaps their Knife-Brother's problem was that, rather than lacking a sense of humour entirely, he merely had a pitiful wetlander's appreciation of jests?

Since Enaila was the only one not chuckling (Gerom had decided to laugh at his own joke too) she heard the stranger's approach first. She grabbed for a spear, remembered that she was not supposed to, so opted for pointing instead.

The young man who walked out of the night had unusually dark hair for an Aiel and a somewhat dreamy expression on his face. The cut of his filthy _cadin'sor _told them that he was a stinking Shaarad of the Dead Tree sept and a _Shae'en M'taal_ to boot… if a Gleeman spoke of dogs, then they appeared, it would seem! A Shaarad _algai'd'siswai_, then, though without any of his _siswais_… there was a good reason for this, unfortunately.

The Stone Dog approached the firelight, smiling at them. But this amusing canine co-incidence was a little lost on the four Aiel (though the Gleeman was smiling foolishly at the newcomer to their fire, naturally) because the young Shaarad fellow, while he might have lacked spears, knife and bow, was nonetheless rendered extremely dangerous by virtue of the black headband he wore about his brow, his once close-cropped hair matted and filthy, hanging down over it, the tail of an _algai'd'siswai_ missing. The Shaido regarded him nervously, Enaila slightly more so since she was not a Shaido and was not as used to this sort of thing as they… though they were all equally nervous, it was just that the older Knife Hands were better at hiding it.

"I see you, sneaking Shaido!" the fellow called out cheerily, "I am on my way to go and try to kill the Dark One…" he stood there, blinking and smiling at them. The Gleeman's smile slipped a bit. Even one as foolish and unobservant as he could not help but have noticed by now that the young fellow's own smile was somewhat… mad. His blue eyes staring a bit. The fingers of his empty hands twitching. No, this was not a good thing. "I have become lost… where am I?"

The Shaido eyed each other.

"You are currently in Taardad lands…"

"The Blight and Shayol Ghul are _that_ way…"

They pointed helpfully, hoping that he would take the hint and leave. He did not.

"Oh… how strange… I thought that was east…" The young man scowled at them; "well? Are you not going to offer me a place at your fire?"

They offered him a place at their fire, though they did not wish to. The Stone Dog sat down, and noticed Roth.

"You have a Gleeman!" Roth smiled nervously at the young man. "Tell me, good Gleeman, do you know any songs or tales about killing the Dark One? That is what I must try to do."

Cohradin snorted undiplomatically. "You will not do it! I have been trying for years! It is much more difficult that you might imagine." Gerom and Chassin attempted to shush him.

The Stone Dog shrugged. "Difficult? But I can do _this_…" He waved a hand and the fire surged upwards, flames roaring, singing their eyebrows. "And _this_…" he turned his head, staring at a nearby boulder, which abruptly exploded, sending fragments of rock whizzing about their ears. They ducked. The young man giggled unnervingly. "You see? I am not unarmed. I will use my powers on Sightblinder."

"And his worm pets," Cohradin muttered, under his breath.

Roth was terrified. A male channeler, in their midst! A madman! Not sure of what else he could do, he reached for his harp. He might not know any songs about killing the Dark One but that didn't matter. He would bloody well _make some up_.

In the morning, the young man, much to their relief, was gone. His tracks led unerringly north, towards the Blight. No-one had found out what his name was.

Enaila rather uncharitably muttered; "he may have been a madman but he was a sight less mad than the rest of you…"

"Shush, _Gai'shain_!"

"I don't know! I have never been _Gai'shain _before! I am doing my best! I am being as meek as I possibly can, alright?" Enaila returned to folding the blankets, twisting them viciously into tight bundles, a sour look on her face.

Gerom took Chassin aside. "I have reconsidered the matter. She can be your _Gai'shain_ if you still wish it, my brother."

Chassin shook his head firmly. "I do _not_ wish it! She has a temper like a lioness with a sore tooth! She is your _Gai'shain_, not mine!"

Gerom sighed. He had been afraid Chassin would say something like that.

* * *

><p><strong>Stedding<strong>

Roth was in a good mood. The arid heat of the Aiel Waste was left behind them, along with its creeping, crawling, scuttling denizens. The peace and tranquillity of Stedding Shangtai was more than welcome to him after their long march south.

But of course, Cohradin had to go and ruin it.

"I mislike this place," Cohradin was complaining to the young Treebrother who had met them at the _stedding's_ border, "it is too wet."

The tall Ogier youth glanced down at him, raising his long eyebrows. "It has been a dry summer," he rumbled, his voice like the drone of an immense bumblebee. "But I suppose that you are unaccustomed to the damp."

"He means no disrespect, good Ogier," said Roth, "it is just his way, to complain incessantly about everything."

Cohradin scowled at Roth, who smiled back.

"Tell me," the Ogier youth enquired as he strode along, the others having to hurry to keep up with his long strides, Enaila tripping on the long hem of her robe, "tell me, have any of you ever visited the groves that are Outside, in the cities that we built for the Compact of the Ten Nations throughout the long years of toil?"

Cohradin and Chassin glanced at Gerom… perhaps he would know what the Treebrother was referring to? Gerom shrugged. "If you mean the cities of the Treekillers and the other wetlanders, we have never been to see them," he answered.

"Oh…" The young Ogier seemed disappointed. "No, I suppose that you would not have. Forgive me, it was a foolish question."

"I'm fairly well travelled," said Roth, "but I'm afraid I don't know anything about Ogier groves. I think there is one at Tar Valon, but I didn't visit it when I was there, since it lacked a paying audience. I was mostly in the Inns and Taverns during my stay. Shrina put me up in the White Tower for a while, but there was a silly misunderstanding with a maid and I had to move my things out sharpish." He shook his head and chuckled. "They can be rather fearsome about questions of propriety, some of those Aes Sedai! One of them threatened to wrap my harp around my neck!"

The tall Ogier youth regarded him gravely. "Then it is well that you did not linger, for a Gleeman's harp belongs in his hands. You will play and sing for us?"

"But of course," Roth responded breezily. He had never had an Ogier audience before, but doubted that they were much different from most. Probably wouldn't want as much bloodthirsty stuff about old battles and wars as the Aiel, mind you. Well, he would see.

They arrived at the centre of the _stedding_, in the midst of the Great Trees that soared upwards on all sides, seeming to touch the heavens. The stump of one, polished perfectly smooth and carved all around with delicate bas-reliefs of flowers and ferns, loomed before them. An older Ogier, wearing the same long coat and boots as their guide, stood on the stump. His eyebrows were much longer, and he had a thin beard hanging down to his chest. He was occupied with flying a brightly-painted kite, which dipped and swirled high above, trailing a long tail of yellow and red ribbons. He noticed them and began to reel in the kite-string, wrapping it about his hand.

The Ogier youth bowed. "Good-morning, Elder Haman. Some Aiel have come to trade for sung-wood, and they have a Gleeman with them."

"I can see that," the Ogier Elder rumbled in his deep voice. He retrieved his kite, tucked it under his arm and came down to join them. Roth performed his best bow, fluttering the patches on his cloak exuberantly. The Aielmen grounded their spears and bowed also, sticking a cupped palm out in front of them. Enaila hiked up the skirts of her overlong robe and attempted a curtsy. The Elder regarded them.

"I see by the cut of your _cadin'sor_ that you are of the Wet Sands Sept of the Shaido Aiel," he stated. "Honour to the People of the Dragon."

"Glory to the Builders," Gerom responded, echoed by Cohradin and Chassin.

"And glory to the Gleeman, also!" said Elder Haman, a wide smile seeming to split his face in twain. Roth grinned and gave his multi-hued patches an extra hard flutter. "It has been long since we had one of your number visit our humble _stedding_. I hope that you will do us the honour of dining with us tonight, and telling your tales by the fireside. I am particularly fond of 'Mara and the Three Foolish Kings.' "

"It would be my honour, Elder Haman," Roth stated smoothly.

"Very well. See to their needs, Loial," the Elder told the Ogier youth. Then he strode away, the kite still tucked beneath his arm.

"Awfully nice chap," said Roth.

"Oh, he is," agreed Loial, "though he frowns upon my studies. He says that I am too hasty, too interested in the Outside, that I should settle down and focus on the history of the _stedding_, as well as…" he trailed off, blushing, the hairy tips of his long ears twitching a little, "well, that is to say… please follow me, good guests."

Loial led them to a stand of cherry trees where they sat on the lush grass and were brought refreshments by tall Ogier maidens. Some of the maidens eyed Loial speculatively and again he blushed, his ears twitching more so than before. There then followed a period of haggling in which Cohradin took centre-stage, waving large nuggets of gold about and complaining that he was being cheated, that old Sadora would beat him with many sticks when he returned and saw how bad a deal he had made. But Loial stood firm and in the end it was agreed that three sung-wood bowls and an equal number of cups would be the price for the gold. It seemed like a fair arrangement.

Cherry wood having a fine grain and texture, it was decided to conclude their business then and there. Roth watched with interest as the Ogier youth placed his hands on the trunk of a cherry tree and began to sing a deep, sonorous song, that seemed to be echoed by the earth itself.

The eldritch song was repeated six times, sung to six different trees, and each time the smooth bark yielded forth a beautiful bowl or cup of living sung-wood. Other Ogier gathered to watch, most of them young. Finally, Loial passed the last cup to Cohradin, collecting a leather purse of gold nuggets in return for his efforts. He looked quite strained, but pleased with himself.

"There are not many of us left who can Sing to the wood," he confided.

"You do it extremely well," said Roth, impressed. Loial bowed politely.

"Can you sing forth other things?" asked Cohradin, "bows, and similar weapons? Armour, even?"

Loial looked shocked. "I would never do that," he replied, "not unless the need was very great. Elder Haman would say that it was unethical to use my gift thus, and I would agree with him."

Cohradin eyed the tall Ogier youth speculatively. He produced a further gold nugget, that he had clearly been keeping back. It was larger than the rest, and gleamed in his hand. "Do you ever wager, Ogier?" he asked.

"Wager? I do not think so…"

"Of course you do! I will wager you this nugget against another of those bowls, larger than the rest…"

"But I do not think that Elder Haman would approve of me wagering…"

"…that you cannot beat Gerom in a wrestling match!" Cohradin grinned.

Gerom frowned. "I do not think-"

"Hush, Gerom! Well, good Ogier? What do you say?"

"A wrestling match? But I have never wrestled…" Loial seemed flustered. "Such activities are frowned upon, in the _stedding_…"

Roth noted that there was a stir of interest amongst the watching Ogier youths and maidens. Personally, he thought this a bad idea… well, it was _Cohradin's _idea, was it not?

"Wrestling is easy!" Cohradin exclaimed. "You merely need to throw this other fellow to the ground and sit upon him!"

Neither Loial nor Gerom were keen on the idea, but Cohradin was persistent. Finally, as much to shut him up as to satisfy the wager, they agreed to the match. Loial took off his long coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

"I have no wish to harm you, Aielman," he said, looking down at Gerom doubtfully.

Gerom smiled gently up at him. "And I have no wish to be harmed," he pointed out. It had been a long time since Gerom had lost a wrestling bout, and he did not intend to start now. Fate had other ideas, however. The match did not last very long.

Roth finished wincing and took his hands from in front of his eyes. It seemed to be all over. The Ogier youths and maidens had finished shouting enthusiastically and Loial, red-faced, was helping Gerom up. They both looked somewhat dusty and dishevelled. Loial patted Gerom on the shoulder in commiseration and the big Aielman flinched, hissing with pain. His shoulder was dislocated.

"Forgive me!" said Loial, chastened. Gerom assured him that he was forgiven. Cohradin tried to give him the gold nugget but he did not seem to want it. It was then that Elder Haman and a couple of the other Elders arrived, to investigate the commotion. Loial's mother was with them. They were far from pleased.

"Goodbye, foolish Gleeman!" called Cohradin as he left the _stedding_, as he had been politely but firmly asked to. Chassin led the way and Gerom walked behind, his arm in a sling.

Roth waved to his travelling companions, sorry to be parting ways at last.

Enaila stood beside him, her arms crossed. She was _Gai'shain _to no-one now.

"Madmen," she muttered, scathingly.


End file.
